Bloodlines and Battle Lines
by Crimson Bttrfly
Summary: Insurrection, drought, and clan conflicts plague Soul Society. Based very loosely on legends of Yoshitsune and Shizuka. Set years prior to the beginning of Bleach. [Slight AU]
1. 01 Dancing Girls

**Summary:** Insurrection, drought, and clan conflicts plague Soul Society. Based very loosely on legends of Yoshitsune and Shizuka. Set years prior to the beginning of Bleach.

* * *

 **Bloodlines and Battle Lines**

 **01.** **Dancing Girls**

The sweat was thick. The heat was even thicker. Eighty-three days had passed, and there was no sign of respite. The winds had died. The rains never came. Even the clouds hung thin and wispy, proving inadequate cover for the blistering summer sun.

Hunched over his sword after a particularly fell blow, Byakuya watched as the perspiration from his brow fell to the cracked, scorched earth. Upon impact, the droplets turned to steam, evaporating before his eyes with a _hiss_. He did not wish to imagine what would have happened had he steadied himself with his hand.

Pulling himself up, he wiped his brow with the back of his arm and yanked his Zanpakutō from the parched clay.

"Again," his grandfather stated in a voice so cool that one could almost forget about the heat and the sun and the lack of rain.

Dripping wet and feeling his muscles burn in protest at the prospect of _functioning_ in such extreme conditions, Byakuya molded himself into a guard position. He had asked for this, after all. Although, as he struggled to keep his sword balanced and his knees from buckling, he began to wonder _why_.

Another bout. Another victor. The same victor.

It was always Ginrei no matter Byakuya's efforts. The clan head had never lost a round with his progeny or their issue. Not once. And, at the going rate, likely not _ever_.

The last clash cost Byakuya a knee.

Kneeling, he repressed the urge to wince as the searing heat ate through his hakama and burned his flesh. The smell of burned skin stung the back of his throat as he inhaled an uneasy breath. Struggling to stand, his bent knee refused to obey his command to move. The flesh was sore and bubbling, and the salty mixture of sweat and fluid from the blisters stuck to the ground, as if the earth was trying to soak whatever moisture it could find.

Either way, the pain he felt was real, and it throbbed, keeping a steady pace with his pulse, which, for all his efforts, remained slow and calm.

His balance was shot. Too many losses, the heat, and the electrical surges in his neural circuitry left him fried and slow. Despite everything working against him and despite his better judgment, he raised his chest and pulled himself into something resembling a standing position. It _was not_ _quite_ standing, and it _definitely was not_ a position suitable for a solider.

Indeed, his hips were not squared or _even_ for that matter. He was favoring his left leg, and his muscles refused to remain still. The excited molecules that were colliding in the air—responding to their respective spiritual pressure—appeared to be plucking at the strings of his fibers, causing them to vibrate.

His hands were so tightly wrapped around the hilt of the sword, not only had the stitching began to imprint on his palm, but small rivulets of sweat-drenched blood began to stream down his arm.

It only took Ginrei one glance to measure his grandson's mettle. The ensuing frown told Byakuya everything he needed to know: He had failed.

 _Failure_. The word was so final, so cutting.

Byakuya did not like _failing_ in general, but, most of all, Byakuya could not _abide_ failing his clan, or its head.

"Enough," his grandfather announced, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve.

In a graceful, but definitive, motion, Ginrei wiped the silk against the back of his neck. "You are clearly spent," he said, crisply folding the silk square in half before dabbing it against his forehead. When he was finished, Ginrei tucked the handkerchief away in his sleeve and gave Byakuya a grave, glacial look.

 _Foolish boy_ , his stare seemed to proclaim of his grandson.

Wordless, Byakuya bowed, hoping the rush of blood to his head could drown out the shame threading its way from his heart to his brain.

No such luck.

"Thank you, Honorable Grandfather," he choked the words out in working order.

"We will begin with kido when I return from duty."

"Yes, Honorable Grandfather." Byakuya kept his head bowed and his eyes rooted to the ground until he felt his grandfather turn heel and begin toward the manor.

"You should show me how your shikai has improved," his grandfather noted as a dark afterthought.

"Yes," Byakuya replied, finding the strength of will to straighten his back. Sheer, untempered bravado, however, focused his eyes on his grandfather's. In the moment where his slate gray eyes met his grandfather's icy blue gaze, a bolt of electricity charged the air. The molecules vibrated. The heat, if possible, intensified.

"Good. Your tutelage in the mountains, I hope, was spent wisely," Ginrei's words were crisp, sharpened to a point, and they cut deeper than Byakuya cared to admit.

Fear was funny that way, wasn't it? Fear seemed to cut deeper than the blade, and its wounds took longer to heal. And, try as he might, Byakuya had not been able to master the heady cocktail of dread, self-doubt, and adrenaline that swallowed him in the face of certain defeat.

Some day he would, he vowed. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But, someday.

For now, he had the chill of doubt and the pinpricks of shame to occupy his thoughts as he watched the distance between Grandfather and him grow.

. . . .

"It is unbearable," Shunsui bellowed between flicks of his garish fan. The leaves of his fan were bright reds, yellows, and oranges, depicting cranes taking flight into the setting sun.

The fan's design held Ukitake's gaze a beat longer than he intended or he considered appropriate. "Indeed," came Ukitake's curt retort; although, he very much assumed that they were referring to two very different topics. He, of course, was referring to that hideous fan that Shunsui thought appropriate to not only _purchase_ , but _use_. In the company of _others._ His friend, Ukitake suspected, was likely referring to the temperature, which was beginning to feel as if it was permanently set on "hell boiling over" high.

 _How unlike me!_ Ukitake reprimanded himself for thinking ill of the fan. _It must be the heat._

Yes, that infernal heat. It was slowly driving everyone in the ranks insane. Heat-related illnesses abounded. Exhaustion, psychosis, burns, strokes—what were they to do? Training was inadvisable as long as the summer bore down on them. Already, the summer's rays had claimed fifty men, at least. The Fourth was the only operational unit, and that was only out of necessity, not prudence.

"Do you think you could convince Kaien to drown us?" Shunsui asked between flicks of his fan.

Ukitake responded to his friend's inquiry with a staid laugh.

Shunsui's fan stopped wafting, and he cocked his brow. His eyes, usually gleaming with some devilish thought, narrowed, and his smile faded. "I'm serious."

Ukitake chuckled. Serious for Shunsui was a rare look, and, given the request, he questioned his friend's candor.

"Okay, I'm _half_ serious." Shunsui's stoic expression melted, and he leaned back into a rather colorful puddle of pink, "The other half, however, is deathly serious."

Still smiling, Ukitake shook his head. "Oh, come now."

"Sure, he'd level half the city. Sure, some people would die. Sure, we'd make it out alive since we're the ones orchestrating the typhoon—" his voice drummed at an even beat, like the waves breaking on the sand.

Ukitake shot his friend a bemused glare.

"—but just think how _great_ it would be for us and those of us that lived! Free of this sweltering heat," Shunsui continued without a hint of irony in his voice.

"We haven't completed the renovations from the _last_ incident."

"Ah," Shunsui swatted this inconvenient fact away with his fan, "the Kuchiki's have all the construction contracts. Ginrei could pull some strings, surely. It could be a twofer. Economies of scale or something like that."

"I don't think that would work." Ukitake punctuated his disbelief with a slow headshake.

"Could we get some religious types? They could do a rain dance or prayer or whatever it is they do."

"Getting worse," Ukitake warned, teasingly.

"Dancers, then!"

Ukitake was not convinced. Not in the least.

"Come now, have some vision!" For some unexplainable reason, the idea of _dancers_ seemed to animate Shunsui. The large man had gone from Giant Pink Puddle to sitting up and gesticulating wildly. "C'mon," he urged, putting an arm over Ukitake's shoulder, "can't you see it?" With a graceful motion, he gave a swooping gesture with his free arm as if he was painting a picture. " _Beautiful_ , _young_ dancing girls. Even if they didn't bring ran, it would still be a success!" At this revelation, Shunsui opened his arms wide, as if to give the world a giant hug.

Ah, there it was, the reason Shunsui was so excited. _Girls_. _Beautiful, Young, Dancing Girls to be exact._ _How terribly predictable of him._

Dumbfounded, Ukitake just shook his head. It was rare for Shunsui's enterprising machinations to be complete enough to disarm him, but there he was with not a single word to express his disapprobation. At least, there were no words that Shunsui would not find a way to turn against Ukitake. No. Not when Shunsui had his mind set on something as devilish as dancing girls.

"I think I am going to put the idea forth to the activities committee," Shunsui said, hopefully. His eyes twinkled manically at the thoughts he was clearly editing for Ukitake's sake.

"You do that," Ukitake said, generously pouring on the sarcasm.

"You'll see," Shunsui threatened melodically as he pulled himself to his feet. "It will be _magnificent_."

"I have no doubt it will be _some adjective or another_." The one coming to Ukitake at that moment was _terrible._

But, there was no point in talking Shunsui from a terrible idea when he had one fully developed. At least, no point at that moment in time, in that heat.

. . . .

"Dancing girls, eh?" Rangiku seemed amused, or sardonic. Shunsui couldn't tell either way.

"I like the sound of it," Isshin burst in from across the room.

Surprise. Surprise. The Captain of the Tenth _wasn't_ asleep at his desk. He was merely face-planted to the grain in hopes of soaking up all the _cool_ surface area on his desk.

"I think we've reached the threshold for throwing ourselves at the mercy of dancing women," Isshin reasoned, turning his cheek to get an eyeful of both Rangiku and Shunsui.

Rangiku's lips pulled to the side, and she donned her most critical of gazes.

In the midst of exhaling a long sigh, she shook her head, "You know no noble man is going to allow his daughter to dance in what would most certainly amount to a giant, dishonorable spectacle, right?" With that, she folded her arms tightly against her chest and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her Shihakushō.

" _And_ ," Shunsui and Isshin echoed, expectantly, as if they were waiting for Rangiku's grand reveal.

"We'll have to recruit dancers from the Rukon districts if we want them at all, and that will be a hassle and a half."

At this proclamation, Isshin lifted his head, balancing his chin on the tops of his hands, which were neatly steepled on his desktop. "How so?"

She responded with a breathy chuckle before throwing herself across the couch stationed in the middle of the captain's office in dramatic fashion. "We'd first have to vet them and allow them waivers into the Seireitei. That alone would take _forever._ "

"Why do you care?" Shunsui asked, cocking a brow. Certainly, the Vice Captain of the Tenth did not concern herself with such matters unless such matters directly impacted her life.

"Who do you think will have to process _all that paperwork_?" she sighed, heavily.

Always an angle with that one, Shunsui mused wryly.

"What if we did some sort of special one-time deal?" Isshin remarked, clearly making it up in his head as he went along.

"And what would this Special One-Time Deal be?" Rangiku bickered back, shutting her eyes languidly.

"We open one of the gates and allow any dancing girl from Rukongai to enter and perform before shipping her back to her respective district."

Stroking his chin, Shunsui mulled the proposal over in his head. It didn't sound _too bad_ , and it could bring hope to the troubled, unfortunate souls in the distant districts.

"We could pay the winning dancer well," Shunsui added. "A monetary incentive may bring out some talent."

"A monetary incentive," Rangiku scoffed so hard that she nearly choked on her own spit, "would bring _everyone_ out."

"Good. One of them has to be able to bring the rains," Isshin reasoned.

Upon hearing that brand of logic, Rangiku popped up in her seat, blonde curls whipping around her as she turned her head, "Has the heat _melted your brain_?"

"I think it's a solid idea, Captain," Shunsui said, grinning toothily past the blonde vice captain. "It would bring the souls in the outlying districts _hope_ , and it could possibly divert their attention from the talks of rebellion in the West. And, given the fact that training and drills have screeched to a halt, we could turn this into a festival of sorts. It would be a morale booster for the men of the ranks!"

Isshin flashed a smooth smile. "Then it is agreed, Captain."

"Dancing girls it is."


	2. 02 Homecoming

**02\. Homecoming**

Byakuya pulled himself from the stream lining the boundary of the Kuchiki estate. He remembered it being _much cooler_ before the eternal heat set it to lava-like temperatures.

Wringing out his hair on the bank of the stream, he kept a steady eye on the flickering light through the branches. The shadows shifted constantly across the stream and dried grass. It agitated him, the ceaseless motion.

Nothing should be so quick, so darting, in this weather.

Noiselessly, he shrugged on his robes and tied his obi before returning to the manor. It was his first week back from his training in the mountains, and, he could not help but feel that his childhood home felt strange, oddly unwelcoming since his absence.

The maids startled when they glimpsed him, as if they had just glimpsed an apparition. Perhaps they did. If they looked too fast or if their eyes were too unfocused, perhaps they mistook him for his father.

He saw the similarities, too. They were painful similarities now that Sōjun was gone.

Perhaps that was the other piece, the other reason the House felt so empty, so desolate, so foreign. Sōjun was no longer there to fill the halls with music or poetry.

As a child, Byakuya took his father's gentle kindness for granted. Stupidly, he thought his father would always be there. Strong, intelligent, _good_ —of course Sōjun would live a long, full life.

Byakuya learned of his father's passing in a missive. The funeral had already taken place by the time he received the news.

The thought still stung his heart. As his father's only issue, he should have been there, fully engaged in the preparations. But, he wasn't.

His grandfather and mentor likely determined that Byakuya's training was too important to disrupt. Sōjun was dead. Byakuya's presence at the funeral wasn't going to bring him back. Byakuya could mourn later, when he returned.

It was a calculated decision, Byakuya thought ruefully to himself as he followed the winding paths to his family's cemetery.

He laid the flowers that he had collected on his way at his father's grave, and he gave a silent prayer. Fondly, he looked upon his mother's grave and prayed.

So much loss. So soon.

Exhaling a heavy breath, Byakuya traced his steps back to the manor, where he was greeted by none other than his cousin, Tadaomi Kuchiki.

He had hoped to slip into the manor unnoticed.

"Welcome home, Byakuya." Tadaomi stood upon receiving Byakuya.

Tadaomi was only a few years Byakuya's elder, and he stood a few inches taller. He had the same patrician features that all Kuchiki seemingly shared. His eyes were gray, but wide and friendly, and his hair was dark, but short. He had an expressive face; emotions seemingly rolled off his skin, like the flickering light through the tree branches that had vexed Byakuya only moments earlier.

Wordlessly, Byakuya dipped his head down. "Cousin," he murmured, voice even and stripped of any affectation.

Tadaomi's keen eyes glimmered as he waited for Byakuya to speak. When his expectations went wanting, he gave a small, warm chuckle, "I see that the mountain air has stripped you of your voice."

Byakuya just stared, not knowing how to respond. It had been a long time since he shared the company of someone other than his mentor, who preferred the sounds of birdsong to that of conversation.

"How long has it been?" Tadaomi continued, clearly aware that any conversational heavy-lifting fell squarely on his shoulders.

"Twenty years," Byakuya stated, voice flat and affect unreadable.

A long, wolfish smile thinned Tadaomi's lips, "Well, it is good to have you back, dear cousin." An affected look smoothed the lines of his face as he stepped closer to Byakuya and slapped Byakuya's shoulder, hard.

Byakuya stared, finding the display completely perplexing.

"You seem different," he observed, smile fading as he read the lines of Byakuya's features. "More serious, now."

Byakuya stared mutely at his cousin. Any semblance of emotion, of expression, had been surgically removed from his features. It had been part of the training. A warrior does not telegraph his thoughts. A warrior pushes down the bubbles of emotions before they breach the surface. A warrior does not. . . .

Byakuya bowed his head politely, but not low enough to yield his standing as heir apparent. "Please excuse me, but there are matters to which I must attend," his words were measured and soft, but he spoke them to the floor before turning to the door.

He did not spare Tadaomi a glance as he crossed into the corridor.

"Oh, how things change," Tadaomi murmured under his breath, thinking Byakuya out of earshot.

 _Indeed_ , Byakuya thought to himself as he stepped lightly across the hardwood floors, missing the squeaky boards that he identified in the first few days of returning home.

Now, he preferred silence to the constant chatter of his youth. Now, he reached for serenity and not the burn of bravado. Now, his steps were quieter, more cautious.

Was it all a construct? Just a well-devised feign? he wondered at times like these.

He had been a fiery, jovial boy. He had craved attention, whether from his father, his grandfather, or his many other elders and contemporaries. Tadaomi was one of those contemporaries. They would play together with their wooden swords. They would yell, scream, and skirmish, adequately diverted and contented in their fantasies.

That ended when Tadaomi became old enough to enter the Academy.

Sōjun, however, was reticent to enroll Byakuya, not because of Byakuya's relative position, but because Sōjun wanted Byakuya to have a meaningful opportunity to _choose_ a path for himself. Sōjun wanted to give Byakuya the option he never had.

Byakuya, however, demanded training. Unlike his father, he embraced the thought of the ranks, of fighting, of representing his clan and his clan's division in active battle. When his grandfather thought he was old enough to handle advanced training, he sent him to the mountains against Sōjun's wishes.

Ginrei thought tutelage in the mountains with an experienced master was the best course of action, having always worried after Byakuya's temper and fire.

It was likely the best decision, Byakuya thought to himself, even if it meant time away from his home and family.

Upon reaching the door to his study, Byakuya carefully slid the door back and crossed the room's threshold.

It smelled like an infirmary. Likely, the servants had opened the room upon learning of his arrival and scrambled to clean it, leaving behind only the sterile odor of their cleaning solutions.

Byakuya surveyed the area. Other than the smell, it was just as he remembered. Bookshelves filled with leather tomes lined the walls, and a small desk occupied the right hand corner of the room. Fresh paper and ink had been set on the desk.

Without hesitation, Byakuya took seiza on the sitting mat in front of the desk, and he began to thumb through the papers stacked neatly on the corner of the desk.

"What is this?" His brows knitted as he examined a brightly colored envelope. A golden ribbon circled the outside, and, with a quick motion, he freed the letter from its festive packaging.

 _Your attendance is requested at the Annual Rain Dance Festival to be held at the Eighth Division at 10 A.M. on August 14. Umbrellas strongly encouraged._

 _P.S._

 _Rain is_ _most definitely_ _happening._

 _P.P.S._

 _No, really. Rain. It's happening. Bring an umbrella._

Byakuya's lips thinned into a small, amused, grin.

Maybe _not_ _everything_ had changed.


	3. 03 Rain Dance

**03.** **The Rain Dance**

"Are you sure?" The man speaking loomed over her. His large body was made even more imposing by the layers of robes he wore, including a rather _unfortunate_ pink kimono.

Nervous, Hisana lifted her head and met the man's stare. He had earthy brown eyes and an animated face. At the time, his features assumed a look of sheer _panic_ , as if things had not gone exactly according to plan. The frantic way his words came tumbling out of his mouth further evidenced this panic.

Hisana stared up at him, eyes large and probing. "Yes," she answered calmly, confident in her ability. Her sureness seemed to pacify him for a moment.

But only a moment. A brief one, at that.

"You sure you can make it rain?" he asked again, as if she may not have understood the question the first time he asked it.

"Yes," she repeated, voice still calm, still poised.

"There were 99 dancers before you, and the crowd is a little—" He paused for a moment to peek through the curtain. Whatever he saw _terrified_ him for when he returned his attention to her, he grimaced and made a slashing motion across his throat with his index finger.

Understanding his meaning well, she buried a chuckle into her sleeve. "They are displeased?" she teased lightly, smiling.

The man's lips twisted to the side, and his brows popped up. " _Murderous_ ," he whispered, cupping his mouth with a hand to prevent eavesdroppers from reading his lips.

Squeezing her abdominals tightly, she managed to stifle another bout of laughter. "Understood." This was not her first time nor would it be her last.

"Okay," he gave a firm nod of his head, "better make it happen. At this point, safety is _not_ guaranteed." Then, without ado or introduction, he pushed her through the curtain and onto the stage.

She nearly fainted when she saw the crowd. In all of her years of performing she had never seen a crowd quite so large or quite so riotous.

 _The heat has a tendency to make people upset_ , she reminded herself.

Indeed, the summons that she had received had not led her false. The Seireitei was _sweltering_. She didn't understand why a call for dancers had not gone out before _now_. Other districts would have broken down sooner in their pleas for a rain dancer.

 _Pride is a terrible thing_ , Hisana thought to herself as she moved carefully to the center of the makeshift stage.

She had heard the stories about the Gotei 13 and the Seireitei, having met a great number of Shinigami over the course of her travels. But, none of those stories prepared her for _this_. The jeers were piercing and cruel. The men threw their fists, some clenching their swords as they did so, and yelled, blood vessels breaking in their eyes.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_ Her stomach flipped, and she felt her hands go numb.

Every time, without fail, fear would elicit a cascading effect throughout her body. Her heart fluttered as fast as a moth's wings, and her internal temperature plummeted. She always hit the proverbial wall right before the start of her performance.

Every damn time.

Years of experience, however, had at least trained her _brain_ to keep going, keep the steps in proper order, and had reinforced her _muscle memory_.

She could do this dance in her sleep.

 _Deep breaths,_ she reminded herself when she felt her chest tense, preventing her from breathing.

Inhaling and exhaling a few breaths, she finally found her resolve. It was strong, steely. It had kept her safe for nearly a century, and it would keep her safe today.

Gracefully, her left hand found the hilt of her sword. The sword itself was nothing special. It was plain, unadorned. It looked like a dancer's prop.

Without a sound, she pulled the blade from her sheath, and she extended it before she began her first pose. Every fiber in her being slid into place, and the fire that she knew from years of quiet study spread through her body.

Inhaling a deep breath, she closed her eyes and began. Her footwork was clean. Her movements were fluid. There was no languor in her steps. There was no hesitation. Suddenly, everything went quiet, and the world receded until only images of the things she loved filled her mind.

Softly—too softly for anyone to hear—she began a quiet chant to herself. Her feet kept time with the rhythm of her chanting, making the entire spectacle appear seamless.

It only took thirty seconds for the rumble of thunder to roll over the crowd.

The sound of relief was almost immediate. The souls, once so brutal and frustrated, quieted. No more curses. No more enflamed reiatsu. Silence and stillness blanketed them for a few moments before realization set in. Silence then gave away to the sounds of "oohing" and "ahhing" as their collective gaze turned skyward.

Opening her eyes, she caught the audience's stirring in her periphery and in the reflection in her blade.

A small, content smile curved her lips. At that moment, the world felt right. The peace that her soul desperately craved found her, as it always did when she performed. It was always brief. Too brief.

Thirty seconds more and the clouds burst open.

Blinding sheets of rain fell, bringing about clouds of steam as the water hit the scorched, hot earth. She could hear the hissing earth, anguished and desiccated, as it took its first drink in one hundred days. She could _feel_ the crowd. Each movement, each breath, even the words spewing forth entered her mind isolated and in perfect fidelity if she concentrated hard enough.

For her final pose, she faced the audience with the tip of her blade pointed down to the stage. She lifted her head to find the sound of rain drowned out the sounds of reverie. That was probably her favorite part. The rain spared her from the embarrassment of eyes on her.

Soaked, she turned to make her escape.

"You did it!" the large, earthy-eyed man exclaimed before she had the chance to flee.

Excitedly, he grabbed her up and swung her around with such force that she feared if he let go that she might be sent careening into the stands.

Fortunately, his grasp proved firm, and he eased her back down to the ground.

"What a remarkable performance!" he said, addressing the crowd, hoping his voice could pierce the watery veil.

Before she could hear any more of his speech, Hisana swiftly moved through the curtain and down the steps from the stage.

She had hoped she could return to her anonymity shortly after payment, but part of her suspected that these souls would not abide such behavior.

And, to that end, they did not disappoint.

"You must stay!" the man, who she thought she had cleverly eluded, called after her.

For his size, he was surprisingly spry. "We have not had a rain all blistering summer. Of course you must perform again tomorrow!"

"Yeah, you can't just leave us in a lurch after just one dance," a woman chimed in.

Hisana spun around to face the source of the unfamiliar voice to find a lovely, well-endowed, blonde female standing a few paces behind her.

"You can stay here, at the Eighth, if your district is too far. We'll have a celebration in your honor."

"That isn't necessary," Hisana murmured, lifting her hands as if she could physically stop their kind words from coming forth. "I really must be going," she said hurriedly.

"Nonsense. She'll stay among my clan!"

This time, the voice came from the left, and it belonged to a patrician-looking man with an easy smile.

"Lord Tadaomi," the busty blonde announced, sounding a cross between surprised and reverent.

"Vice Captain Matsumoto," he replied, bowing in the woman's direction. "And may I have the pleasure of learning the rain dancer's name?"

Clutching herself tightly, Hisana shrunk down and gave a shallow bow. "Hisana," she murmured, breathless and feeling every alarm in her body beginning to sound all at once.

The blood pounding in her ears eclipsed all sound, and her throat closed at the possibility of speaking. Instead, she helplessly stared at the three souls before her.

"Come, let me serve as your escort," the strange, yet affable lord offered before taking her arm.

Against her better judgment, Hisana allowed this man to spirit her away.

. . . . .

"Hadō 33, Sōkatsui!"

Byakuya's muscles sparked at the sound of the familiar spell.

"Hadō 4, Byakurai!" It was his preferred kido attack, and he managed to time the blast quick enough to meet his grandfather's torrent of energy.

When the two blasts collided midair, Byakuya kept his pressure steady until his own reiatsu found the weakness in grandfather's spell. Before he had the opportunity to capitalize on this flaw, Ginrei countered by doubling down. "Hadō 73, Sōren Sōkatsui."

"Bakudō 81, Dankū," and, in an instant, the shield manifested just in time to take the torrent of energy aimed at Byakuya's back.

Then, something caught Byakuya's attention. It was puerile on his part. He knew better. But, he couldn't help himself. He had to confirm that the drops of water pelting his arms were indeed rain.

His lack of focus, however, nearly cost him a limb as a current of energy came hurtling toward him, merciless in its aim and object.

Swiftly, Byakuya retreated to a nearby tree.

"That is enough," Ginrei growled, staring up at Byakuya's perch. "Hopefully, next time the _rain_ will not pierce your resolve."

"Forgive my inattentiveness, Grandfather," Byakuya murmured, hopping down from the branch and landing soundlessly.

The sizzle of lightening striking overhead, however, did divert both men's attention.

"Perhaps it is wise to seek shelter from the storm," Ginrei observed between paces toward the manor. "Maybe we can meet this _rain dancer_ ," he added, darkly.

Byakuya's gaze lingered on the velvety black sky as he considered whether to take his grandfather's statement in earnest.

 _It is the correct day_ , Byakuya mused, somewhat astonished by the coincidence, but, before the idea had the chance to take hold, he quickly disposed of it as little more than childish nonsense.

. . . .

Hisana stood, staring out of the garden door. She had been lingering in that room ever since Lord Tadaomi left her there with a pile of priceless silks to wear while her garments dried.

Worry filled her gaze and her heart. This place began to weigh on her. The noise was constant. So many disturbances. Never did she think she would prefer the quiet and stillness of Rukongai to the Seireitei, but she did. The souls in the Seireitei possessed so much overwhelming power. She was unaccustomed to the feelings of life, beating and strong, weaving into every space.

She felt as if she was drowning, and it made her want to run.

Unconsciously, she gripped the wooden frame of the door, hoping it would tether her just in case her instincts took over.

"You're still in your wet clothes."

Hisana spun around to face the Lord, who appeared somewhat disappointed by his finding.

"I'm sorry, Lord Tadaomi." The words left her all at once, but she managed to shake her head soulfully. "This kimono is lovely, but I cannot accept it, even for a few hours."

If she were being honest, she would have told him that she found the silk akin to a ball-and-chain. If she placed it on her back then she was stuck there for as long as it took the maids to dry her items.

"I will bring you a yukata," he murmured, realization flashing in his eyes. "It will be yours, not a loaner." Before she had a chance to protest, he was gone.

When he returned, she accepted, as was expected of her. She wrapped herself in its colors, which were lovely, and, when she presented herself, the young Lord whisked her away to the celebration, which she mostly slept-walked through.

At some point, the over-stimulation of powerful entities gathered so close began to wane. She habituated, not completely, but enough.

After, Lord Tadaomi returned her to the estate, where they traversed the winding trails in a contemplative sort of silence.

"If it is not too presumptuous," she began, hesitant as she held him in her gaze.

Reading her shyness, Lord Tadaomi replied with a beaming smile, "Go on," he encouraged.

"Is there any place where I may practice?"

His smile lengthened, "Of course. We have whole buildings designed just for that purpose. When you have settled in, ask the attendant to escort you to the Hall of Swords. No one will bother you there."

For the first time in hours, Hisana smiled happily. "Thank you, Lord Tadaomi."

. . . .

"Gentlemen," Ginrei greeted sternly upon entering the room. On his heels, Byakuya crossed the threshold and stood, dutifully, behind his grandfather.

"Why if it isn't little Byakuya Kuchiki," Shunsui greeted with a wide grin, seated on his mat, cross-legged and puffing on a pipe. "How long has it been now?"

"Twenty—" Byakuya began only to be interrupted by Jūshirō, who sat proper seiza on his cushion.

"Twenty years. Isn't that astonishing! It's good to have you back. I expect that there is news?" Jūshirō's gaze then flickered to Ginrei, as if he was expecting some grand announcement.

"Yes. I have appointed Byakuya to the position that his father held before him."

"Well, this is an auspicious day, indeed," Aizen noted, taking a sip from his tea bowl. "Rain and the appointment of a new Vice Captain." The learned captain then turned his attention to Byakuya. "Congratulations and welcome."

Ginrei took a seat beside Aizen, and Byakuya followed in kind, sitting slightly behind his captain as was the custom for vice captains. "Let us discuss the rumors of insurrection in the West," Ginrei began, cutting short any further discussion of rain and appointments.

Byakuya imagined his grandfather never cared for idle chatter, viewing the practice as a wasteful expenditure of energy.

Captain Aizen nodded his head thoughtfully. "I believe we can call an end to speculation based on the Second's latest dossier." Without ado, the captain fished a folded piece of paper from his sleeve. "The map of recent rebel activity," he said, unfolding the paper and placing it on the table for examination.

"It appears that they are recruiting from districts 50 to 70. We have no intel on their leadership, names, structure, or funding sources. There is a strong suspicion, however, that the money flowing to the rebels is flowing out of Seireitei."

A collective gasp and dark looks all around.

The news surely surprised Byakuya.

. . . .

The space was so expansive and clean. Hisana had never seen something so simple and so beautiful in her life. Even in the shade of darkness, with shadows chasing moonbeams, it made her heart flutter with joy.

"We can light the lanterns," the attendant, a young girl dressed in a lavender kimono, politely informed her.

"No need," Hisana responded, voice shaky.

No. She preferred to leave the space undisturbed. The natural lighting would prove sufficient for her purposes, and she did not want to leave any remnants in her wake.

The attendant bowed her head. "As you wish," she said before receding back into the night.

 _She must think me mad_ , Hisana observed as she watched the girl flutter down the footpath to the manor. For a moment, this thought perturbed Hisana.

 _I will never see these souls again_ , she reminded herself, brushing away the sting of censure before it had the chance to needle her any further.

Keeping the shadows still, Hisana drew the door closed and exhaled a sigh.

 _So much space_ , she thought to herself, wondering what she was going to do with it. Silently, she surveyed the area, lightly tracing the perimeter with her socked feet.

The hardwood was supple. There was a comforting spring as she stepped across it, varying the pressure of her steps as she walked the border. It absorbed the shock of heavy, sudden pressure.

"How remarkable," she remarked quietly to herself.

Hisana was accustomed to the unforgiving terrain of whatever Rukon district that she happened upon when she practiced. The forested lands were uneven, with hidden, punishing depressions. Hisana had lost her footing during one performance to an unforeseen pit and had suffered a fractured ankle as a result. The plains were more suitable for dancing; its lands were even, but hard. One error could also be costly.

This, however, was perfect. Crafted with practice in mind.

Satisfied with her inspection, she moved to the middle of the room and felt the weight of the night's air. The world was quieter, now. The frenetic energy of powerful men had begun to die as those powerful men went to sleep.

A stillness, the kind that Hisana relished in the Rukon districts, wrapped around her like a silken ribbon.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled a deep breath, allowing herself to feel her lungs stretch, full with air. Then, languidly, she moved into her first position.

She didn't bother to open her eyes. Instead, she let the night air guide her movements. Her steps were quick and powerful, requiring greater flexibility and stamina than her traditional dances usually demanded of her.

Perhaps those powerful men and their powerful energy proved inspirational.

She reached for her sword. Her hands hungered for the feel of the hilt. The moment the stitching pressed into her palm, feelings of security, of agency, washed over her.

She spun, swiftly and with great force, around. The blade was naked and alive. Its weight sank into her arms, forcing her muscles to tense. The burn felt good, like hot water flowing through her body.

Then, it all stopped.

It was not her design.

It was not because her muse—the thick night air—had abandoned her.

It was a force, not of her own, bearing down on her.

The sound of metal against metal came later. It came _after_ the confusion. After the panic had set her limbs and bid her heart to flutter wildly in her chest.

Her eyes snapped open. Wide-eyed, she stared into the darkened room to find another, a man. He had caught her iron with one of his own, and, in her stupidity, she had not deferred to his strength. No, her grip on her blade proved unyielding.

Her gaze flicked from the open counter to the face of the man who had so quietly entered the room and stopped her dance.

He was young. Skin pale. Eyes gray. Hair black and loosely pulled back by a tie. He was tall and lean, and he bore an unwavering expression. She had seen that look before. The men of the ranks—the ones with badges on their arms or white coats—wore it with such ease. It was equal parts withering and inscrutable.

Her arm strained under the force of his counter. It was gradual, but he was exerting more pressure as she stood there, trapped in his gaze.

Trembling, she slid her blade forward, forcing his back.

He allowed her maneuver. Had he desired otherwise, it would not have been so easy to ward him off.

If he had desired otherwise, she'd be dead.

Indeed, he was a dangerous man. A monster.

"Forgive me," she began, training the horror from her voice as she spoke in quick, broken breaths, "I am only a dancer. I did not think that—"

"Your blade," he interrupted, eyes dropping to her hand, which clenched with white knuckles the hilt, "it is no prop. It is live steel."

Her gaze dropped to the floor. There was no use looking at him. There was nothing more to see. Fear blinded her.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Every fiber in her being told her to do no such thing. Eyes rooted to the floor was her safest bet. This man, this _monster_ , was a perceptive beast, and she did not wish for any more secrets to escape.

But, then his gaze, hot and piercing, was on her, and she had a sinking feeling that he was not only a perceptive _monster_ but a _persistent_ monster as well.

Raising her head, she met his gaze, and her body trembled under the weight of his stare. Cold and hot ran through her veins simultaneously, and she felt disoriented by the sudden flash of pressure with which he pinned her, like an insect nailed to a board. In order to find herself, however, she struggled against his reiatsu, something that he likely either anticipated or did not notice for he continued to search her face for something. What? She did not know. There was not a stitch of emotion on his countenance for her to read. She felt like a captain without his compass, navigating thrashing waters.

"You are no warrior," he murmured. His breath, hot and smelling of expensive tea, skated across her flesh.

"I know," she responded, words falling from her lips like petals, errant.

The lines of his face tightened, and, for a mere moment, she thought she saw a flash of disappointment. "Then, why do you carry a blade?"

"Where I am from, those without tend to perish to those with."

"Or," he snapped, voice low and tense, "they fall prey to their own blades."

"The marauders where I travel are not so skilled."

With a metallic "tink," certain death was sheathed, but his stare was still there, boring into her. He was still searching. Still trying to discern the why's and the how's.

His reiatsu diminished, until it was almost imperceptible, a gentle flicker, and her muscles, once taut, released.

She sucked in an easy breath.

"I see," he concluded to himself.

 _What? What does he see?_ Hisana was at a loss.

The clacking of wood broke the silence, shattered the tension.

Instinctively, both Hisana and that strange man turned their eyes to the door.

Hisana waited with baited breath for some Great New Terrible to enter. Her concern, however, proved unwarranted when a young female attendant poked her head into the room.

"Mistress," she called, frowning at the taste of the title in her mouth.

Hisana cocked a brow. Never before had she been called "mistress," and, suddenly, she, too, shared the young servant's reservation at such a title.

"The Captains of the Eighth, Tenth, and Thirteenth have called upon you," the girl announced in the midst of a sigh, voice dry, almost surly. Clearly, she found the task of serving a peasant repugnant.

Hisana did not particularly mind the disrespect. She understood; the servant would have been her better had she not brought the rains. The social order was suddenly off kilter on this particular day.

Tomorrow, the natural order would be restored.

"What honor brings three captains to my house?"

Immediately, the young attendant fell to her knees and bowed, low and formal. "Lord Byakuya Kuchiki," she cried out, voice strangling on her miscalculation as she placed her forehead to the floor.

Apparently, the girl had not seen her Lord, this Byakuya Kuchiki.

Hisana gave the man a sidelong look. She knew nothing of Lords, Captains, or Kuchikis. It was enough to know that she occupied the lowest rung, and that all else was above her, like the sky.

"They wish to have an audience with the rain dancer," the servant managed, despite her fluster.

This Byakuya Kuchiki lifted his head as he watched her. "Then, allow me to escort the guest of honor." His voice sounded dark and ominous.

 _Why did I come to this strange land?_ Hisana wondered as the Lord passed her on his way to the door.


	4. 04 Wild Horses

**04 Wild Horses**

Embers danced in their eyes. Wild and yellow, the sparks of freshly lit pipes and of a crackling fire flew across their glass gazes.

There they were deep in that cavern. The Fatal Four. There was the desolation. There was the calamity. There was the darkness. There was the malady.

The lantern light cast only a faint glow. The darkness was deep, impenetrable.

They each sat, eyes forward. Unblinking. Unseeing. Unconcerned. This was their territory, after all. Anything beyond the Western Fiftieth District belonged to them, and the tides of revolution were climbing closer and closer to the White City. It was only a matter of time before the waves of a new social order were lapping at the large walls that kept the peasants out and the ruling class protected.

Drunken rebels spoke with slurred tongue and in jocund tones. Hope rained down on the men, just as thick and intoxicating as the liquor that poured forth. But, then, didn't it always?

Every new crop of souls had their would-be revolutionaries if only the right set of circumstances presented itself. All it took was for someone to see the _opportunity_.

Now, the opportunity was bearing down on them, and the call to arms had been heard and heeded.

A fire was catching across the districts. The West could no longer contain it. It spread from the West to the South, from the South to the East, and from the East to the North.

It was only a matter of time before the entire Fiftieth fell.

"The watchtower," Jiang began, her voice low, dark, _knowing_. Her narrowed gaze was hooded, veiled in the shades of twilight.

"Um-hm," Zhang hummed, agreeing.

The battle over District Fifty's Shinigami outpost in the Western Waste would be a decisive one. It would be the first time they could test their might against the loyalists. And, first impressions could either end their cause or charge the base.

Zhang had a good feeling. Their men could wield their weapons well enough. The leadership was strong, and their numbers were vast. They outnumbered the Watchers 10 to 1, at least.

There was only one thing they lacked that the opposition had in spades: A recovery unit.

But, there were _rumors_ of one soul who could heal a thousand with a dance.

If that soul truly existed, Zhang was confident that he would have him or her in a fortnight.

. . . .

Stone-faced, Ginrei Kuchiki bent at the hip and cupped one of his prized yellow chrysanthemums in the palm of his hand. His touch was light, almost as if he expected the delicate specimen to fall to dust in his hands. It did not, but it should have.

Only a day ago, the flower's head hung in defeat, desiccated and surrendered to the scorching heat and sun.

Not today.

Now, the flower stood happily on its own. Its beautifully ornate petals glistened with morning dew, and it reached out to face the sun, to bask in its golden glory. The whole plant was fully restored. Not even a remnant of its former self marked it.

Ginrei's gaze sharpened at this observation.

He was no man's fool.

A rain, no matter how drenching, could not have revived his personal garden so completely. At most, a thorough rain would have spared the healthier plants. It could not have saved the ones so close to ruin.

He took a knee when his curiosity proved too insatiable to conquer. Instinctively, his hands tangled in the sepals and petals of the neighboring flowers.

The flowers that had perished weeks prior remained with the earth, dry and brown. However, the flowers that had held out hope for rains but were on the verge of succumbing to death were now vibrant. Perhaps even more vibrant than before. Even the soil, once as dry as burnt clay, felt thick and nutrient-dense in his hands. There was life there. Warm. Breathing. Life.

"Lord!" It was the gardener, a kindly elder gentleman whose position as the Kuchiki family gardener had been passed down through his family for centuries.

Ginrei lifted his head as soon as he heard the man's footfalls grow closer.

"There is no need to trouble yourself over the chrysanthemums," he called, mid-bow. "I will ensure they receive the proper care."

In a solemn, fluid motion, Ginrei stood and gave a small nod of his head. "Of course," he murmured. The gardener had never proved himself anything but capable.

However, before Ginrei could turn toward the house, he stopped. He could not help himself. The improbability of it all continued to hold his imagination in its grips. "Toto," he began, voice low and stern, "have you ever seen a rain so invigorating?"

For a moment, the man gave a few noncommittal scoffs, as if he could not find the words to articulate his amazement.

Ginrei did not bother to turn to catch the man's stare, a stare he had no doubt was scrambling to ascertain a proper answer.

The man's fumbling grunts confirmed what Ginrei knew to be true.

 _There is magic at play._

. . . .

The map was large and plastered against the wall adjacent to the door.

Byakuya perused the various flags and red strings marking the rebels' current strongholds. The outermost western districts had collapsed, and it appeared that the insurgency was beginning to move outward, not up through the districts. It was a prudent move. Building an army among the disenfranchised was an easier feat than convincing souls with a modicum of comfort to take up arms. Complacency proved to be a potent source of inertia.

"Think they'll make a move on the Fiftieth's watchtower?" The voice was warm, friendly, and instantly familiar. The only thing it was _not_ was _expected_.

Byakuya took a quick step away from the map, and he turned to face the direction of the voice; he knew it well. _Too well_. Twenty years had not dulled the memory of the fiery reprimands they had exchanged in his youth whenever they crossed paths, of the clashing sound that ideals made when they ran headfirst into one another.

 _An unwelcomed intrusion._

"Lieutenant Shiba," Byakuya grumbled, steeling his voice and hoping to hide the fact that the Thirteenth's second-in-command had caught him unawares.

Kaien shrugged a satchel from his shoulder and dropped it on a nearby table. "Reconnaissance from the Second suggests that's their next move. Could be critical," he observed in the same casual mien that had always perturbed Byakuya. Still did.

To be reared with all the finery of privilege only to cast it aside. Byakuya would never understand this strange man or his strange kinsmen.

Paying no heed to Byakuya's silence, Kaien plopped down on a wooden chair next to the table, and he threw his weight into his seat, causing the wood to crackle in protest. When he finally ceased his incessant squirming, Kaien settled deep in his seat, hung his arms off the back of the chair, and sat with his long legs open and turned out. "Whatcha think?" he asked, dark brows wagging over keen eyes.

Years of staring aghast at Kaien's unearned easiness had gotten Byakuya nowhere in the past. He knew better. Kaien Shiba could not be _shamed_ into becoming something he simply was not. And, Kaien Shiba was never going to be a prim sort of gent. He was brash, but good-natured. His power was unquestionable, but its aim was more direct and less measured than Byakuya's. If Byakuya was even and controlled, then Kaien was a swell, an outpouring of everything in which he believed.

Byakuya inhaled a deep breath and swallowed his censure for the present, and, instead of lingering on Kaien's poor posture, Byakuya eyed the satchel that Kaien had tossed so carelessly across the tabletop.

"Water," Kaien answered Byakuya's unasked question, clearly reading the expression flickering across Byakuya's features.

Before Byakuya had the chance to hide whatever hint of emotion lingering in his air, Kaien stopped him with a brusque, "It's good stuff. Miyako insists that we harvest our own water at the Thirteenth. She thinks fresh water," he paused, searching for a _charitable_ description for his Third's idiosyncrasies, "She thinks it's _healthier_ so we have all of these rain catchers. Everywhere."

"Is there a point?" Byakuya interrupted, voice crisp but even. Not even as a child did Byakuya tolerate unnecessary prattle.

Kaien flashed a boyish grin, and his head lolled to the side. "Same as ever," he sighed wistfully to himself. For a brief moment, the once lively lines of his face went still, as if he was chewing on a very disappointing realization.

Byakuya was not certain how to take Kaien's silent disapprobation. What was he expecting? What were they _all_ expecting? A different man, a _better_ man, to have emerged after twenty years in the mountains?

Whatever _man_ every acquaintance he ever entertained was expecting, Byakuya could not help but feel that he was falling short of their _vision_ for him.

For Kaien's purposes, twenty years of rigorous training was not going to solve the fact that the two never saw eye-to-eye on…well… _anything_. A thousand years wouldn't settle their differences.

But, then, Byakuya truly doubted Kaien thought extensive weapons and kido training would smooth the edges of their fractured relationship.

Rolling his head back and training his gaze on the door, Kaien lifted a brow. "All I'm saying is the water from yesterday is a bit _unusual_." At the last word, Kaien's eyes met Byakuya's gray stare.

Locked in Kaien's gaze, Byakuya considered what his elder was trying to convey. It was unlike Kaien to speak in riddles. No, Kaien Shiba was about as subtle as a jackhammer, which could only mean that the young Shiba was _uncertain_. He was a dog chasing sticks, but, by the looks of it, Kaien seemed certain that he had caught the stick, that he ascertained the right hunch.

"I bet you tap from the wells on your property," Kaien noted, eyes trailing to the floor as he leaned forward in his seat. His long frame folded over itself as he massaged the back of his neck.

"We do," Byakuya delivered his response in the most civil tenor he could muster.

Without a word or provocation, Kaien slid the leather satchel toward Byakuya.

Instincts, raw and powerful, set his muscles into motion, and Byakuya caught the satchel before it fell off the table. Only then, when he held it in his hands, did Byakuya realize he was holding a leather water bladder.

"Try it." Kaien leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in front of his chest as he watched Byakuya. It was a challenge.

Byakuya stared at the water bladder, finding it all intensely perplexing. What was Kaien driving at?

"Or don't," Kaien countered upon seeing Byakuya's hesitation.

Byakuya frowned as he opened the bladder and stared into the clear liquid. It looked just like water. It smelled just like water. Perhaps it was more fragrant than the well water that supplied his estate, but it was nothing unusual. Just water.

Taking a small sip, Byakuya swallowed a mouthful without much thought. It tasted of leather, of earth, of flowers. It tasted of sky and clouds.

 _It tasted like water…._

Then, it hit him. A wave of euphoria crashed over him like a wave hammering a crag. Suddenly, every muscle, no matter its level of fatigue, soreness, or injury felt invigorated. Pain, stiffness, weariness—it all receded from him like waves pulling into the ocean.

It took great mental effort to conquer his primal urge to take another drink.

"Do you feel it?" Kaien asked in that cocksure tone of his.

Byakuya lifted his gaze and fixed Kaien with a quizzical stare, "What is this?"

"Reminds me of the restorative hot springs in the Sōkyoku Hill training grounds," Kaien responded, grinning at the expression the water elicited from Byakuya. Once his amusement at Byakuya's expense faded, he returned to staring at the door.

"Where did that rain dancer go?" Kaien's question was a quiet one. Almost somber.

Byakuya sealed the water bladder and set it neatly on the table. "She left early this morning."

"Did you see her perform?" Kaien asked, giving Byakuya a quick, but purposeful sidelong glance.

"No. Did you?"

Kaien frowned. "No. I was on patrol."

"Miyako?"

"She was at the event. But, she wasn't paying it much attention. Not after the first hundred dancers or so. I imagine by the time the rain dancer performed most of the men were too drunk to remember what, exactly, happened."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, and, once again, Byakuya was lost to the seas of his own thoughts. He knew. He knew that they should not have let her slip away so easily. He felt the steel of her blade only the night before. There was life in its counter. Even though it was only a memory, he could still feel its hum against his dominant hand. Senbonzakura, too, recalled the feeling of her iron against his. There was something there. In her. In her sword. She was no ordinary dancer.

He should have inquired. Asked more pointed questions. She was a fearful creature. She would have capitulated. The secrets trapped in her eyes were not so closely held. At least, not where her dancing and swordplay were concerned.

But, he judged her too far beneath his own skill, his own rank, his own status. What could she possibly say that would be of any moment to him?

"Did you meet her?" Kaien asked, head cocked to the side as if he was waiting for the inevitable answer.

Byakuya had no doubt Kaien already knew about their encounter. That was Kaien's way, after all. He was always waiting for Byakuya to slip up, to choke on his own arrogance.

Usually, Byakuya judged Kaien daft on such issues.

Today, however, he was beginning to see Kaien's point.

"She is of little consequence," Byakuya grumbled as he turned his back on Kaien and set his gaze on the map and all of its little flags and red threads.

The squeak of Kaien's chair was response enough.

Kaien disagreed. And, on this point, Kaien was likely correct. A water dancer who could bring healing rains was a rare creature.

Briefly, Byakuya wondered at the extent of this power. Could she heal a whole battalion of men? How quickly? How thoroughly? Must they consume the water? How far did her reach extend? Did the efficacy of her healing rains wane with distance?

The deluge of questions flooding to the forefront of his mind, however, ceased upon hearing the clap of wood being pulled back on its track.

Kaien was spry, jumping to his feet and dutifully bowing his respects to Captains Aizen and Shiba, who were closely followed by their subordinates, Lieutenants Ichimaru and Matsumoto.

Ginrei was the last to cross the threshold to the small room.

Once each member of the makeshift advisory unit had taken a seat, Aizen began, withdrawing a packet of dossiers, likely from the Second. "There are rumblings that the rebels will move to capture the watchtower in the Fiftieth District."

"Any further word on the finances?" Ginrei inquired, folding his hands in his lap as he turned his attention to Aizen.

"No further report on finances. Although, we assume they have some funding. To what purpose they are allocating their funds, we do not know," Rangiku responded softly. "Division Ten has been pouring through the financials with the aid of the Ise clan."

Ginrei nodded, approvingly. "Then, what do we do with respect to these plans to take the watchtower in the Western Waste?"

Aizen withdrew a few documents from their envelopes, and he unfolded the papers to reveal a small, detailed map of the Western Waste. "The lands are harsh. Sands. Little vegetation. No substantial water or food sources. There is a small outpost in Nimeria, but that is more than 600 clicks from the watchtower, and there are rumors that it is under rebel control. The tower itself is stocked with enough resources for 50 men to last six months."

"How many rebels?" Isshin chimed in, trying his hardest to wipe the boredom from his face.

Aizen thumbed through a few more documents. "Between 150 and 300 strong."

"If the nearest outpost is Nimeria, then where are the rebels quartering 150 to 300 men?" Ginrei's voice was firm, betraying a deep skepticism at the Second's intel.

"There is an extensive cave system surrounding the watchtower. The Devil's Ridge borders the watchtower. The Second believes a rebel faction is lying in wait there."

"What of the fifty Watchers stationed in the watchtower?" Ginrei probed.

Aizen's features tensed, and, as he lifted his head, the afternoon sun, streaming into the room from a nearby window, caught in the lenses of his glasses, veiling his eyes for a brief moment. "There are only 20 Watchers at present," he murmured, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Ginrei leaned forward, eyes narrowed and brows knitted together. "Why have the numbers dwindled so?"

"Thirty have perished over the last eight months. Most of the causes are unknown. Most are suspected losses due to increased hollow activity in the Waste."

"How well trained are these men?" Isshin asked, cocking his head like a wolf spying a particularly tasty and slow-moving elk.

"Fresh out of the academy," Aizen murmured, reading from the documents. "The most senior Watcher is only three years out. The Waste has been mostly uneventful until recently."

"So I take it that we dispatch a unit sooner rather than later, before they claim the tower," Isshin surmised, running a hand across his scalp as if he was fighting back the beginnings of a colossal headache.

"If you do not mind my asking, why would they want the watchtower? It doesn't seem particularly useful." Rangiku's icy blue stare telegraphed her concerns.

"The watchtower contains certain data and technology that connects to the Twelfth's monitoring systems. It wouldn't take long to reroute the transmissions, but it is likely that they would ravage the technology and backward engineer something that could possibly interrupt our current communications systems. Worst case, they begin intercepting our communiques," Aizen replied matter-of-factly.

Leaning forward into the conversation, Kaien finally broke his silence, "When do we begin readying the troops?"


	5. 05 Provisions

**05 Provisions**

The flags rippled in the air, and the winds sang their shrill song. The banners' colors were beautiful—blood reds, stark whites, royal blues, and hummingbird yellows. You could almost forget that you were in the Western 48th. That is, until you spotted the telltale signs of poverty. No shoes. Threadbare robes. Dirty cheeks. Worn stares.

Hisana paused and placed her hand to her brow, fashioning a makeshift visor over her eyes. The shadow that her hand cast was good enough, she thought as she squinted into the sun, scanning the crowds. There were at least 150 gathered around their little band of roving entertainers. Men, women, and children milled around, watching and chatting. They seemed _happy_ , which was the goal.

She couldn't have asked for more. Everything was perfect. Not a stray note or a missed step. And, no one could've asked for a better showing in terms of audience.

Jun sat with his shamisen braced against his knee; his weathered hands strumming its strings with ease. The boys kept time with their drums, and the dancers, even the little ones, four girls and a toddler, proved to be quite the diversion.

With the money from this event and from her rain dance in Seireitei, their little troop of ragtag, Rukon performers wouldn't have to worry about food, clothing, or shelter for months. Maybe they could even afford shoes for the little ones.

"Miss Hisana," Seiko, a lovely songstress, called politely. She gave a small wave of her hand and a warm smile.

Hisana nodded her head.

It was her time. She knew. The butterflies fluttering in her stomach had told her as much. The cue was Jun's tempo: It slowed toward the end of the routine.

Hisana forced a small, closed-lip smile as she took a step forward, up the rickety stairs to the equally rickety stage.

It was truly remarkable that the weight of the men, the women, the boys, and the girls, with their assorted props and instruments had not fallen straight through the rotten boards.

 _Now is the final test_ , Hisana thought darkly to herself as she felt the wood bend under her feet and crack in protest with each step that she took.

If she didn't break the damn thing, then there was more to that stage than met the eye.

"The Rain Dancer!" Dai announced, appropriately flamboyant in his delivery as he threw his arms open and his long, brightly dyed sleeves began flapping in the wind.

Hisana's smile, once staid and uncertain, widened as she imagined Dai taking flight in those heavy gusts, like some exotic bird.

 _He probably wouldn't mind. Not one bit_ , she mused as she passed him on the stage.

He gave her an encouraging nod of his head before receding into the background and off the stage as she assumed her opening pose.

She kept her weight centered on the balls of her feet, and she imagined air. Yes, she wanted her footfalls to be as light as air, undetectable.

Without musical accompaniment, she waited until the drumming in her chest became so fast, so thunderous that she was certain her heart would explode.

She exhaled a long breath, and, then, she moved into her first position.

The dance began with slight, almost imperceptible movements. She was air. She was nothingness. Her steps were precise and controlled. And, she followed her heart. As the pounding in her chest grew, so did her movements. Boldly, she opened her arms. Her footfalls took sound, and her movements grew quicker, grander until she was the storm, strong and swirling.

The sound of hands clapping in a steady rhythm provided the beat when she could no longer hear the drum of her own heart. She followed it without mind until the droplets, once slight, almost imperceptible, fell from the heavens, heavy and fast.

The audience had not even noticed the clouds as they began to gather overhead. So enthralled, the gentle mist of rain did not pull at the strings of their thoughts. It was not until the clouds, gray and full, finally burst open, unleashing an outpouring of rain.

The torrents shielded Hisana, like a watery veil.

Visibility was cut to only a few meters in any direction, and Hisana grinned. Her heart, once so full of anxiety, calmed its beat, and her muscles, taut yet pliable, relaxed as she assumed her final pose and closed her eyes.

Then, just like that, it ended—the rain, the butterflies, the dance—and, when the watery veil lifted, Hisana opened her eyes, expecting to find looks of awe and relief on the faces of the audience.

What she found, instead, was a swarm of glinting iron.

Her eyes widened, and she took a step back.

"You are the one that brings the rains?" a voice, faceless and raspy, filled her ears.

In an instant, she felt the bite of a blade against her neck and the bruising grip of fingers sinking into the tops of her arms.

"Y-y-yes," she stammered, heart caught in her throat, throat parched and tight.

"Then, you're coming with us."

Darkness enveloped her.

* * *

Byakuya sat, stare fixed on the thousand documents meticulously stacked before him. How was he ever to complete all the requests for provisions? Every time he filled out one form, three more seemingly sprang forward to replace it. At this rate, he would need to swallow his pride and _delegate_ , which was not a winning prospect.

Surely, his grandfather's men were properly competent. The Academy was known for its rigor, and the Sixth was known for its focus on _reason_ and _law_ , both were subjects that required _reading_ and _attention to detail_.

It was also dawn, and Byakuya had not been to bed in two days. The words were beginning to drip off the form at this rate. A first-year foot solider would be better suited for this task at the going rate.

With his resolve broken, Byakuya drank down his pride and politely asked Shirogane, his Third, what the protocol was for assigning paperwork.

His quiet inquiry was met with deafening laughter from the Third, and Byakuya stared, eyes bloodshot and face grim.

"Hot damn!" Shirogane roared, shaking his head and looking askance at several of the unranked officers milling around his office. "Lost that bet," he teased, reading Byakuya's nonplussed expression like the back of a book.

"Bet?" Byakuya's brows knitted together, and, he frowned. He did not like where this was going.

"We were taking wagers on how long it would take you to _ask_ for help."

Byakuya's frown only deepened, but his searing disapprobation at being the butt of a joke went unaired. Mostly because Byakuya was just too tired to find the words.

Likely realizing that he was making 0 points with his new boss, Shirogane flashed a boyish grin, "Gotta say, you look a little uptight, kid," Shirogane mused. "We've been waiting for you to use us! Work gets distributed top-down 'round here."

Byakuya closed his eyes and exhaled a small breath. "Of course."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Shirogane chuckled, then, gave Byakuya a hard slap to the back, "it's not like you've ever worked in a unit before."

Without another word, Shirogane collected the documents from Byakuya and began thumbing through the pages. "I've got this. No worries. Next time, if you have questions, let me know," he said, jabbing his thumb into his chest with gusto. "We're a team, and I've been with the Sixth for nearly half a century."

Solemnly, Byakuya nodded his head. "I appreciate your assistance," he murmured, feeling the sting of embarrassment begin to crawl across his face. Fortunately for Byakuya, the crushing exhaustion currently wracking his body severely dampened his internal turmoil to the point that his face had nary a stray line to betray his shame.

"Now, go get some sleep!" Shirogane practically _ordered_ , almost joyful. "We've got work to do!" he said, greedily clapping his large, meaty hands together.

 _Sleep_ , Byakuya mused, miserably. Oh, how it had eluded him so.

They were on the brink of _civil war_ , and he could barely hold his head up. His eyes felt swollen and scratchy in their sockets, and he could hardly focus. Words, written and spoken, were slowly becoming inscrutable, seemingly jumbled inside his head.

Instead of bidding a proper farewell, Byakuya merely bowed his head and began in the general direction of the barracks. There was no way he was going to be able to find his way to the manor. Not in his condition.

* * *

Tadaomi's gray eyes fixed Kaien with great intensity. A few decades his elder, the young Shiba, stood in the center of the room. Bold words came fast from the young lord's lips, and the talk of impending battle and supply routes seemingly animated his long, muscled limbs.

Kaien was in _rare form_ today.

In fact, Tadaomi could not recall in recent memory a time when the young Shiba Lord seemed happier. Kaien was born for times like these. He was born to lead, to plan, to fight, to teeter on the edge of the abyss.

Tadaomi leaned back in his seat, bored. _He_ most certainly was not born for moments like _these_. The intrigue of war and the inevitability of blood spilling into the streets did not settle well with Tadaomi. Not that Tadaomi was a pacifist. He just thought war was a terrible waste of energy, of money, of talent, and of resources. Surely, there had to be a better, more efficient way to be done with this talk of rebellion?

"Isn't that right?" And, in that split second, Kaien's eyes—clear and keen—pinned Tadaomi, holding the Kuchiki lord captive.

Tadaomi straightened in his chair, heart picking up its pace and a warmth pooling in his stomach. Dumbstruck, he stared even harder into Kaien's eyes, hoping he could find the right words in the Shiba's gaze.

Then, it hit him, like a lorry going full speed ahead. His short-term memory kicked into full gear, and, before he could fully comprehend what had just happened, his mouth was off to the races, "Of course the Kuchiki will provide proper provisions to the troops."

 _Naturally_.

Kaien's lips curled into a lopsided grin, and he gave a sly shake of head. "We appreciate it, Tadaomi. Not only the Thirteenth and the Sixth, but us all."

Tadaomi gave a dismissive wave his hand. "Yes, yes."

 _Nobless oblige and all that._

 _Blah. Blah. Blah._

It was _nothing_ , after all. The real news would have been had he _denied_ the Squads access to the Kuchiki trade routes and supply vehicles. While Byakuya trained in the mountains, it was Tadaomi, not the _heir apparent_ , who Ginrei groomed to take over the clan's business. Byakuya was too busy flexing his muscles and swinging his sword to learn the niceties of dealing with the other high nobles, the lesser families pledged to the Kuchiki banner, the merchant class, the Gotei 13, and the Central Chambers. Tadaomi, however, knew these connections like the back of his hand. Finance, business, and politics—these were the lexicons that Tadaomi had mastered.

Tadaomi had learned the Kuchiki finances and trade better than perhaps even Ginrei. He had expanded their enterprises beyond manufacturing and agriculture. Soon, hopefully, they would have a chain of successful restaurants and inns to their name. Next on his list: Entertainment. Within a few years, Tadaomi had no doubt that the Kuchiki would be the largest patron contributing to the arts. And, there was money to be made in entertainment.

Tadaomi exhaled a small, satisfied breath when Kaien turned to another issue. What that issue was? Tadaomi gave zero fucks. As far as he was concerned, his company consisted of only brutes with swords, even Kaien. Just another brute with a sword.

Is that what the Gotei 13 did to otherwise pedigreed members of society? Turn them into brutes with swords? Had Byakuya _turned_? He had been among the ranks for a few days, now.

Tadaomi would have bet money that the mountains would have transformed Byakuya into one of those strong-armed men who welcomed the cry of war. However, when Byakuya came stalking back into Kuchiki manor after his extended stint _abroad_ , Tadaomi did not sense any such transformation. The little caterpillar that crawled up to that mountain returned not a butterfly of war, but a sadder, grimmer caterpillar.

Ginrei did not seem overly enthused at Byakuya's transformation, or lack thereof.

Ginrei did not seem overly annoyed, either, Tadaomi reminded himself.

If anything, Ginrei seemed slightly relieved. The piss and vinegar that once characterized Byakuya's temperament was gone, drained from him. In its place was an icy, world-weary stare and a silence so punishing that it was hard to share Byakuya's company for more than a few minutes at a time.

Whatever happened in the mountain, it did not make a brute, and it sure as hell didn't make a businessman.

Staring out a nearby window, Tadaomi grinned darkly to himself as a curious thought took hold.

Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe Ginrei would split the duties of the Kuchiki between him and Byakuya. He, of course, would take the helm of the family and its dealings, and Byakuya would be groomed for the Sixth's captainship.

It would only be fair.

Had Tadaomi been Sōjun's child, he would have taken over as clan head, being Byakuya's elder by a twenty years. He was also better suited to clan affairs than Byakuya, who had eschewed the vagaries of spreadsheets and capital expansion for the glint of steel and the promise of greatness on the battlefield, neither of which resonated with Tadaomi.

It would be a perfect compromise between Ginrei's issues, Sōjun and Akami.

At the conclusion of Kaien's impassioned _whatever_ , Tadaomi waited patiently for a private moment to speak with the Shiba Lord.

"Tadaomi Kuchiki," Kaien greeted, ever pleasant, ever polite. He gave a small bow of his head, and Tadaomi responded in kind, bowing his head a little lower as Kaien was technically his better.

"Vice Captain Shiba." Tadaomi decided to go with Kaien's rank given the occasion.

"Is there any way that I convince you to join the fight? Captain Kuchiki has always been complementary of your skill with a sword," Kaien observed, a charming smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Ah," Tadaomi gave a small, humble-sounding chuckle, "Lord Kuchiki is too kind," he murmured, not sure what to make of Kaien's statement. To his knowledge Ginrei was not known for bouts of random, unmerited _compliments_ , and Tadaomi's swordplay and kido were nothing remarkable.

"The Thirteenth has a few openings if you're interested," Kaien offered smoothly. Too smoothly for Tadaomi's liking. Maybe this was the Shiba's intention for inviting Tadaomi to the little coffee clutch of loyalists—to broach the subject of recruiting Tadaomi.

Tadaomi repressed the urge to frown at the offer. Instead, he swatted the insinuation away with a graceful bat of his hand. "Vice Captain Shiba, your offer is tempting."

 _Untrue_. _A walk in a freshly stocked pit seems like a more sporting life decision than eternally pledging myself to the ranks._

"However, my wife and child would have some rather stern words if I took up the Thirteenth's flag."

Kaien nodded his head, feigning sympathy like the best of them. He had no clue. See, Tadaomi had long surmised that there were men like him, who found adventure in spreadsheets and ideas, and, then, there were men like Kaien, who found their adventure in blood sports. Nothing wrong with either approach; however, neither man would ever see eye-to-eye on the import of the other's chosen pursuit.

It probably didn't help the matter that Kaien's One True Love was every bit as committed to the Gotei 13 as Kaien. They both probably made perfectly barbaric love and would probably have perfectly barbaric children.

Tadaomi gave a slight sniffle, feeling his allergies beginning to get the better of him as they crossed onto the outdoor breezeway.

Kaien inhaled a deep breath of the humid, flora-filled air.

 _Oh, yes, Kaien is one of those types_ , Tadaomi thought to himself as they continued across the breezeway. _A lover of the great outdoors_. His tawny complexion, sun-kissed cheeks, clear blue eyes, and wind-swept hair revealed his true nature.

Tadaomi smirked to himself at this realization. The stories were all true. No matter the effort, Kuchiki and Shiba would never be close allies. Kuchiki were not as brazen as Shiba, a trait that the Shiba embraced with reckless abandon. Kuchiki, on the other hand, had never been ones for reckless abandon. That much was accurately reflected in the history books. The tomes that contained the history of the Five Families chronicled the many ways in which the Shiba and Kuchiki had clashed over the _millennia_. It was a small miracle, really, that the Families ever reached a peaceful accord.

"We truly appreciate the Kuchiki's financial pledge," Kaien continued, digressing with a small huff.

"We are happy to provide aid in any way we can," Tadaomi began, pouring on the charm, "However, I do have this pestering question."

Kaien gave him a quick, but genial, sidelong glance.

"I wondered why you invited me to make the request, not—"

"—Byakuya?" Kaien interrupted, correctly guessing Tadaomi's next word.

Tadaomi smiled reflexively. It was a large, Cheshire Cat type grin. He knew he had been caught, but he welcomed the prickling flush that others would have termed, "shame." To Tadaomi, it felt like truth, stark and naked. "Yes."

Kaien pressed his lips together, and his eyes dimmed as he scanned the horizon, searching for an appropriate response.

Tadaomi smothered the smile ready to burst onto his lips at any moment. For a moment, he rejoiced in the bubble of jubilation that filled his chest at the prospect that he may be onto something. That maybe, just maybe, Byakuya's claim to the clan was not as clear as others once thought.

"You seem to be the one who knows the most about the family's affairs, no?" Kaien said, attempting to side-step around the issue of Byakuya.

Kaien's attempt at side-stepping, however, looked a lot like tripping over Byakuya's dead body from where Tadaomi was positioned. If Tadaomi was the one who knew about the clan's affairs, then the next logical conclusion to draw was that Byakuya did not know about the clan's affairs.

Realizing that his answer was a rather backhanded commentary on Byakuya, Kaien gave a dark chuckle and ran his hand nervously through his hair. "I mean, Byakuya…. I suppose Captain Kuchiki likely knows the most about the Kuchiki's affairs, but to ask him for a pledge seems like a conflict-of-interest."

 _Not making it better_ , Tadaomi thought rather gleefully to himself.

Kaien rolled his eyes, realizing that there was no getting around the issue of Byakuya's lack of involvement in the family's finances. "I don't think it is a closely guarded secret," Kaien began, but a rather oafish and loud adjutant cut him off.

 _Just when the getting was good_ , Tadaomi thought miserably as the stocky, vulgar-looking man came into frame, running at full gallop toward his superior like some servile _dog_.

And, just like that, Kaien was called away to the thing that brutes with swords are good at—battle—leaving Tadaomi with only a few jagged pieces of the puzzle and only his wild imagination to fill in the rest.

* * *

Of the Gotei 13's thirteen captains and thirteen vice captains, only six captains and five vice captains stood in the Great Hall located within the First Division.

In proper order, the captains stood with their adjutants at their back. At the head of the room stood the Captain-Commander, leaned over his weathered and knotted cane. His face, heavily lined and wrinkled, appeared particularly grave today.

Kaien was waiting for the inevitable. Bad news. It's not as if impending civil wars were the natural harbingers of _good_ news. Quite the opposite.

"We are gathered here today to discuss the division of labor necessary to fracture the insurrection running wild in the Western Waste and beyond," the Captain-Commander began, voice dark and low.

If Kaien wasn't mistaken, there was a certain abruptness to Yamamoto's cadence, one that belied uncertainty. Kaien's back straightened at this observation. He was never one to embrace the nuances of uncertainty. In fact, he hated it.

The Captain-Commander gave a small acknowledging nod of his head to Captain Soifon, who responded in kind before addressing the Council of Captains. "As we suspected, the outpost in Nimeria has been seized," she began. "We currently have operatives inside the rebellion, but, as of yesterday, all correspondence from the Second's men ceased, leading us to conclude that they are planning to mobilize their men in the nearby mountains. We have confirmation that their current target is the watchtower. In order to keep our communications systems and technology intact, we will need to defend the watchtower near Nimeria outpost. We estimate that the rebel unit planning to make the march will be 200 strong. Conservatively, we should match their numbers."

"Nonsense," the Kenpachi roared, arms folded against his chest and jaw set, "25 of my men would suffice. They're untrained civilians."

Captain Soifon turned to the Captain-Commander; her eyes pleading for him to heed her suggestion.

"What makes Captain Soifon believe that trained militants require similar numbers to untrained civilians in order to secure a victory?" The question came from Captain Kuchiki, who stood sans Byakuya.

Kaien cocked his head a little to make sure he wasn't merely overlooking the Sixth's newly minted vice captain. He hadn't. Little Byakuya must've thought there was something more important than escorting his captain to the Council's meeting.

How _cute_ of him.

Kaien exhaled a long breath through clenched teeth as he thought the word: _Arrogance_. Well, it was more like he _seethed_ the word. It took every bit of his inner restraint _not_ to roll his eyes.

 _What could have Byakuya possibly have found more important than being there, right then, with his own captain?_ The more Kaien thought about it, the more irate he became.

"We have reason to believe that some of the rebels possess an extraordinary amount of reiatsu," Captain Soifon responded, training the anxiety from her voice. "Specifically, we have intel on what the rebels are calling the Fatal Four."

"What of this Fatal Four?" Captain Ukitake inquired, his question oddly soothing in execution. Likely, the good captain sensed his colleague's fraying nerves as her squad came under scrutiny from two senior captains.

"They are considered to be the rebel's leadership. All four are said to possess enormous amounts of reiatsu, and they each possess and wield zanpakuto," she responded, finding her nerve.

"So, possibly _four_ of their members can match the skill of our seated officers. It is unlikely that they will send all four of their leaders on the field of battle at once," Captain Kuchiki observed, rigid logic stripping any trace of warmth from his voice and countenance.

"True. Strategically, it would be foolhardy for the rebellion to risk the entirety of its leadership in a single skirmish; however, there is reason to believe that the Fatal Four aren't the only ones who could pose a threat. The Academy and the Gotei 13 have suffered defections."

Defections. A word that never went over well. It was a dirty little secret, but not all of the Academy students made it to the ranks, and some of the foot soldiers washed out a few years into their service. The attrition always proved to be a sore spot during periods of insurrection because it meant that there was a shadow army of disgruntled and trained former students and soldiers waiting to enact their revenge on the system for perceived injustices.

Kaien frowned.

"Among the recent defections, several exceptionally promising students have gone missing."

"Gone missing?" Ukitake repeated, concerned by the Captain's word choice.

"Yes. We do not have confirmation that these students joined the rebellion, but, at the moment, the Second is operating under the assumption that all souls that are absent without leave have likely joined the movement."

"How many have gone AWOL?" Captain Kuchiki asked, brows furrowed.

"Presently? One-thousand-five-hundred souls, students and soldiers included."

 _Shit_.

Kaien and Rangiku exchanged nervous glances. Never before had a rebellion induced such a great number of their kind to raise their swords against the Seireitei. Even the largest rebellion, almost a century ago, did not inspire that extent of defection.

"It is the Second's candid recommendation that we match the rebels' numbers, Captain-Commander," Captain Soifon concluded.

"The Second's request is granted."

* * *

Byakuya shrugged a robe over his shoulder as he began to wring out his hair. He had slept for twelve hours straight before rousing, feeling swollen and heavy. Hoping to break his stupor, he forced himself to the springs circling the First Division.

On reflection, it was a prudent decision. The hot springs _were_ refreshing. Even more so now, after the rains, than before.

 _That woman_.

He could not help himself. Kaien's strange lesson from the days before proved to be a potent spark, lighting up his entire imagination, catching his brain on fire.

It was such an elegant solution, too.

The way she held herself and her sword, he knew there was something more to her. Senbonzakura all but confirmed his suspicion when it collided with her steel. There was a soul in that blade. There was a resonance in its steel that would have been absent in blank Zanpakutō.

But, how had she mastered a release? She wasn't a student at the Academy. Of that, Byakuya was certain. No way would the Academy have allowed her to leave without forcing her into the ranks. And, if her rains could really heal, she would have been desirable candidate for the Fourth. Or, really any division. Except, of course, the Eleventh. But, then, the Eleventh prided itself on sheer strength to the detriment of _all else._

Byakuya made a quick knot in his obi before beginning his way to the cobblestone walkway that led in the general direction of his manor.

If the Academy had scooped her up with both hands, then _why would they have let her go?_ Surely, Captains as experienced as Ukitake, Kyōraku, and Shiba knew what she was, what her rains meant. Kyōraku, at the very least, was present during the rain dance. He may have been a drunken letch, but he was a keen _drunken letch_.

 _Maybe they didn't know then?_

Such a result seemed improbable given that Kaien was apparently onto the woman's nature. And, if _Kaien_ had arrived at the proper solution, then others must know as well. Kaien certainly wasn't any great _brain trust_.

Her absence suddenly became _concerning_ , gnawing on Byakuya's nerves.

 _Wherever did she go?_

Moreover, _why_ would she have left the Seireitei for Rukongai? Such a decision hardly made any proper, logical sense. She could have easily requested admission into the Academy, and they would have welcomed her with open arms. Simple as that. A power such as hers would be extraordinarily useful. If she could heal just one squadron of men during battle, she would have more than paid for her education and lodging at the Academy.

Although, she seemed terribly uneducated in the ways of Soul Society. It was entirely possible that she did not know about the Academy or, if she did, that enrollment was open to peasants.

Intrigued, Byakuya considered the chance that she had aligned with the rebellion. Unlikely, he concluded on first blush. If she were so inclined, then her time in the Seireitei was ill spent. By all accounts (of which there were many), she spent the majority of her hours _waiting_ to dance. Then, Tadaomi whisked her away to the manor, where the servants informed Byakuya she either waited quietly in a guest room or practiced in the training annex where he happened upon her.

She certainly wasn't sneaking through the house or venturing very far from where they directed her to go. In fact, she seemed more interested in the payment for services rendered than in anything else.

 _Payment_.

Then, suddenly, it dawned on Byakuya. If they wanted to find her, they could track the funds. If she was a rebel sympathizer, they would be able to track the money.

For a brief spell, Byakuya considered whether it was likely that she earned money for the rebels through rain dancing. Ultimately, that scenario seemed improbable.

If she were under rebel control, there would be no chance that they would parade her around, unguarded, into Seireitei to _perform_. No. She would be too valuable to them, providing an efficient alternative to an infirmary unit.

Indeed, if she fell into the rebellion, her presence could possibly turn the tide. And, with that thought, a potent mixture of dread and urgency lengthened Byakuya's stride as he mulled over the possibilities, none of which were particularly _good_.

If this strange woman with her strange power could restore an army with her rains, they were going to have some _problems_. Major problems. Not even they possessed such a potent instrument.

They needed to find her and apprehend her and quickly.

If she hadn't joined the rebellion, they needed to prevent her taking. If she had joined the effort, then they needed to capture her before she could do real damage.


	6. 06 Triangulation

**06.** **Triangulation**

Hisana sat on the cold, dank floor. Splotches of black dotted her vision as she forced her eyelids back, and, try as she might, no amount of blinking could cure her of it.

She had been hit in the head _hard_ with a blunt instrument. The back of her skull still roared in anguish, seemingly permeating all the way through to her _brain_. Oh, how her head throbbed. And, to make matters worse, her equilibrium refused to return to her. No matter how hard she tried to summon it, the world tilted and spun like a slow circling top.

 _Where am I_? She wondered to herself as she searched the corners of the room. From her daze, she could see two rickety, wooden chairs set in front of a clay hearth. Embers of a fire that once was continued to flicker from under the ash and flame-licked wood.

No one else occupied the room.

Hisana scrambled to get to her feet. Her silhouette flickered across the walls with every movement, drawing her attention when she failed to stand. There was a weight, great and painful, that pulled her back every time she attempted to scurry forward. At first, she thought it was her own impotence: She was just too exhausted or broken to stand, to go to the door, to _escape_.

Then, she realized it wasn't her at all.

Out of the corner of her right eye, she glimpsed the scattering of shadows building on the wall as she tried to stand. There was her shadow—a distorted, attenuated version of herself—and there was _another_ , a tether.

Without delay, her head snapped to the right to see that her captors had _chained_ her. She must have missed the clanging of iron against the dirt floor through the din in her head. But, now, as she stared at the thick, dusty chains, it all became so obvious.

So painfully obvious.

Hisana sank back to the floor. Her breath came out in one long whine, and her shoulders dropped at the realization that she was snared, like some sort of wild animal.

'And why?' she wondered to herself, bracing her back against the wall.

Oh, yeah. That _power_ of hers had landed her in all this mess. Upon this realization, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she grimaced.

It had been so long ago. Inch by inch. Moment by moment. It just suddenly _was_. It came about like a storm sweeping across the horizon. It was always there. Always _waiting_. _Wanting_. It was always simmering just right there beneath the surface, like an internal itch, so deep you couldn't scratch it.

She didn't even remember what came first: the feeling of raw, unbidden power or the sword that helped control and amplify it?

Now, her trusted sword was all the way across the room, propped against the wall, too far for her and her chains. She could almost hear its cry. As a reflection of her own internal maelstrom, it, too, was raging and confused.

How could this have gone so poorly? she wondered, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palms. She was a rain dancer. Her essence, with the aid of her sword, brought the rains. It was nothing special.

She and her roving band of miscreants went to places that were in drought, performed their silly parlor tricks, and she danced to bring the rains. What little money that could be offered was offered, and they went along their way.

What use could she be to the rebels? Had they mistaken her for someone _powerful_?

She exhaled a long sigh and leaned her weight deeper yet into the splintering wooden walls. Resignation wasn't her specialty, but there was nothing she could do while shackled and scattered-brain.

'This will all sort itself out when they realize their mistake.' Hisana wrapped this thought around her like a snug, warm blanket before drifting off into a restless slumber.

* * *

Lekki Shihōin sat with her legs neatly tucked under her, but Byakuya was not so easily fooled. For all of the girl's pretense—proper posture, oily silks, intricate embroidery—she was most certainly _not_ suitable company.

She was a Shihōin, after all.

All he would have to do was run a nail over her finely painted veneer to expose the _real_ , red-blooded woman barely hidden beneath. There was a reason why the servants whispered about her in hushed tones, never failing to liken her to the prior head of the Shihōin clan, the one who _fell_ protecting a declared traitor.

Lekki, like the former Shihōin mistress, was a paradox to Byakuya. She wore the silks and jewels of a noblewoman with great ease, and her understanding of protocol was _impeccable_ , but he could not deny the fact that she _reminded_ him of the fallen Shihōin clan head, Yoruichi. She had the same coffee-colored skin, which pulled tautly over her lithe frame. She also carried herself in the typical Shihōin fashion: a hideous mixture of infallibility and calculated mischief.

But, it was the wild, almost feline, cunning trapped in her amber eyes that truly marked her as Yoruichi's kin. Only a devious mind could summon such an expression.

And, Byakuya was well acquainted with Lekki's deviations, having partaken in several of them only moments prior.

By the looks of her, she seemed sated. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes, shining like liquid gold, lacked the _edge_ he had previously encountered. Now, she watched the court life with a contented gaze.

Contentment, however, did not soften the sharpness of Byakuya's stare. The pleasures of the flesh were a fleeting thing. He rarely retained the rosy afterglow like the others. Instead, his liaisons proved to be little more than a sudden diversion, like the capricious summer wind whipping across the ocean. Once the sting of desire and the heady cocktail that followed on the heels of a mighty release were felt, he was proficient in pushing these feelings to the side, like they were some sort of chore.

Right then, he could barely look at Lekki, knowing what they had done just seconds ago.

Lekki seemed to share his sentiments. Her attention was narrowly focused on Kaien Shiba, who was probably one of the few noblemen immune to her _charms._ It was part of his allure to a _certain set_ of highborn ladies, like Lekki. Kaien was unobtainable. The thought of him was potent only because it was _forbidden_. Kaien's wife, Miyako, came from a respected and highly regarded noble house, the banner of which was pledged to the Shiba. If a woman crossed Miyako or her family, the affront would cause a riotous quake throughout the nobility.

There was a danger to the Shiba lord.

A danger that the young Shiba lord was just too _stupid_ to notice.

Byakuya frowned as he watched Lekki staring at Kaien, hanging on his every word. She had even taken to _tittering_ , something that suddenly struck Byakuya as very _unbecoming_ of a Shihōin lady. Yoruichi had never _tittered_ ; she chuckled heartedly with the same full-throated force as the men of the ranks.

Byakuya's lips sloped into a dissatisfied frown. While he was not a jealous sort of soul, he was _competitive_ , especially where the Shibas were involved. And, right then, as his gaze shifted to Kaien, their differences _blinded_ him.

It was galling, really.

Kaien preferred the company of commoners to the highborn. He routinely went out of his way to engage with the peasantry, both in his own unit and abroad. He was salt of the earth. Folksy. Well meaning. _Simple_.

Byakuya was none of those things, and, upon arriving at that conclusion, Byakuya's gaze slid to the door. Who or _what_ he wanted to suddenly materialize from behind the door, he did not know. He merely prayed for a digression as he took a long sip from his sake bowl.

"—isn't that right, Byakuya?" Kaien asked, sloping forward, chest hovering over his crossed legs.

Byakuya's frown deepened as he inspected Kaien's posture. "No," he replied, force of habit. True, while he had not been paying Kaien's prattling much (or any) mind, he flared at the thought of _agreeing_ with the brutish lord.

Kaien blinked the confusion from his eyes. "No? You didn't entertain the rain dancer?"

Byakuya's features set in a cold, withering stare. "I object to the characterization that _I_ entertained _her_."

Kaien's eyes rolled for a flicker. "You _did_ meet her, though."

Stiffly, Byakuya took another sip of sake, his gaze skimming the edges of the bowl. It was tacit agreement, and Kaien was swift enough to understand that.

"Like I said, Byakuya met her."

"Oh?" Lekki cooed, but the involuntary twitch in her brow signaled her confusion.

Byakuya had not shared such confidences with her. But, to be perfectly forthright, there wasn't enough time during their _interlude_ for much conversation.

"He didn't tell you?" Kaien asked slyly, his eyes sliding over to Byakuya knowingly. Kaien expertly smothered his expanding smirk around the rim of his sake bowl.

Byakuya caught it all the same.

For a moment, he felt a stab of amusement at Kaien's perceptiveness. _Who would've suspected?_

But, on the edges of amusement came disgust, as was often the case with Shibas. Kaien looked like a schoolboy, trying his best to stifle his urge to go running his mouth to any potential party, exposing the juicy details about the Kuchikis' bedroom habits.

"Byakuya doesn't share the _fun_ stuff with me," Lekki responded, brushing aside Kaien's scandalized grin with a flick of her wrist as she ran a hand through her hair.

"What did you think of the Rain Dancer?" Kaien said, clearly hoping to cajole Byakuya.

It was working.

"She was short," he muttered, matter-of-factly.

Kaien snorted a heavy breath through his nose. "That's all?" He was clearly _bemused_ at the summation.

Byakuya tipped his chin down to his neck, and his lips pulled into a tight line, making his expression look even more remote than usual. "She was not skilled with a blade."

"She's a _rain dancer_ from nowhere for crying out loud!" Kaien protested in charming disbelief. A wolfish grin slit his lips, and he rolled his head, clearly _editing_ his thoughts for Lekki's benefit.

"So… _wait_ ," Lekki's voice took a sober turn, as if she was piecing together the threads of Kaien's meaning in earnest now. "So, the rain dancer is _real_?" The Shihōin princess stared, eyes wide and red lips agape.

Kaien folded his arms in front of his chest and slumped back into the sitting cushions. A knowing smirk lengthened his lips, and his blue eyes flared. "The Rain Dancer is real."

This news elicited a small giggle from Lekki. "Who would've thought a peasant capable of such a thing? I figured it was just happenstance." Then, she turned to Byakuya, eyes narrowed and questioning. "And _you knew about this_?" she exclaimed more so than asked.

Byakuya returned her glance with a cool look of his own. "She possesses a Zanpakutō," he reasoned, "It isn't so extraordinary," and pressed his lips against the rim of his drink. _Like her swordplay._

"Sure, a water-element Zanpakutō isn't unheard of," Kaien added, feeling the reins of Lekki's interest slip from his hands, "but her Zanpakutō isn't _just_ a water element. It has healing properties."

Lekki cocked her head to the side, toying with the information. "How _intriguing_."

Byakuya closed his eyes tightly, hoping to release the mounting pressure from the back of his eyes.

"How long until the rebels intercept her?" Lekki asked, her tone edging on boredom and her gaze trailing to her liquor. Byakuya, however, knew better. After taking a small drink from her cup, her eyes flickered up to meet his, a golden fire dancing in them.

Kaien's shoulders sloped, and his jaws clenched. He even ran a hand through his hair, causing the strands to angle in all different directions. " _Exactly_ ," he said, sounding a cross between a sigh and a groan.

Not even Byakuya was immune from the sudden agitation of the thought; a grimace pulled the lines of his face downward.

As he had assumed, Kaien and he had drawn the same conclusion—it was only a matter of time before the rebels claimed the Rain Dancer—and, from the looks of it, they both had hatched the same plan to redress the situation….

"I take it that's why you're drinking with _me_ tonight," Lekki said, eyes skating from Byakuya to Kaien. "You boys need some _help_?"

Kaien flashed his patented boyish smile, his motives clearly exposed. He lifted his hands up, palm-side facing Lekki, "Caught me," he teased.

Byakuya did everything in his power to hold back a much deserved eye-roll. Instead, he stared grimly into his sake. "The Second's attention has been diverted due to the insurrection. It is unlikely that they will allocate resources to this matter unless there is a _push_."

Lekki grinned widely at this. "And, I know exactly which buttons to _push_." As she spoke the words, she trapped Byakuya with a devilish stare.

 _But it will come at a price_ , he couldn't help but think to himself darkly. His eyelids fell slightly at the thought of the price that she would exact from him and him alone. Kaien, meanwhile, was free to go about his evening, none the wiser and feeling all the more useful for _helping_.

Byakuya inclined his head and leveled her with a stare. "Indeed," he said, a cross between haughty and resigned.

 _For Soul Society._

And, without a word, he tilted his cup.

"To Soul Society!" Kaien joined him, tinking cups.

A wildcat glare caught in Lekki's eyes, and she smiled, deep and devilish. " _To Soul Society_ ," she purred, tipping her cup and pinning Byakuya with a look.

* * *

When Hisana roused from her heavy slumber, she blinked back her eyes to find a curious man seated an arm's length from her. He was young, with wild, short locks, and small, round eyes. He watched her with a steady look, as if he had willed her awake.

Hisana's eyes fluttered for a few seconds as she tried to bat away the darkness speckling her vision. Even now, after the Gods knew how long, her head throbbed, and her vision swam. Maybe there was no cure. Perhaps she had taken a wallop to the head so hard that she would never fully recover.

"You're awake," the boy, who couldn't have been much older than a teenager, observed, voice quiet. but high, betraying his youth.

Hisana sank against the wall and rolled her head toward the door. It was pure torture. With her chains, the door might as well have been a thousand leagues away. But, a girl could hope, couldn't she?

Silence fell between them. It was sharp and prickly, like the quills of a porcupine. Hisana liked her silence, having learned to weaponized it when she was a youth in Inuzuri. Few knew what to do in the heavy, tense quiet. It broke people in a way that she could never understand. Like right then.

"Stare away," the boy said, fighting back the suffocating feeling as nothingness encroached.

Hisana did not bother with a look. She knew he would still be sitting there, still staring at her, looking for answers she either didn't have or wasn't willing to give. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of stale, musky air.

"You're ours now."

With equal measure, she exhaled. There was no use in feuding with the boy. If he believed in the _cause_ , whatever that entailed, she cared not.

"Are _they_ alive?" she asked, cutting to the chase, cutting to the only question that haunted her.

Her friends. Her kin. Were they alive? Had they been spared? And, if so, on what terms? On _whose_ terms?

"Your _friends_ ," the boy said, breath heavy as he gave a small chuckle. "That all depends."

As she assumed. "On me?" she asked, all but finishing his observation.

"You're a clever one, aren't you?" he asked, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Not particularly," she answered, turning her head toward him. When she caught his gaze, her eyes narrowed. "But, I do know a lot about men like you and yours."

A wicked smile slit his lips, and he leaned back, amused. "No doubt. _Hisana of Inuzuri_ ," he taunted, eyes flashing in the candle light, as if her name and place could possibly inspire dread.

The true dread was escaping that horrible place, where some Shinigami had seen fit to deposit her and her infant sister like _garbage_.

"Is _she_ alive?" The question escaped her. It fled from her heart and rushed out of her mouth before she could think better of laying bare her greatest vulnerability.

"The child?" the cretin asked, cocking his head and eying her with a devious stare. "Do you want to see her?"

"Alive or dead?" Hisana's voice became bladed, and she gritted her teeth. Her days of playing games with brutes were long over.

He flashed a knowing grin. "Alive." But, before she could take solace, he reiterated his previous point, "For now. Whether she stays _alive_? Like I said before, that all depends on you." He then pulled himself up, the shadows, thick as black smoke, following his movements on the nearby wall. "Will you dance for us?"

Hisana jerked her head up, and she held him with a heated glare. "What does my dancing have to do with anything?"

His wild, animalistic grin faded, and he leaned down to her. Wrapping an index finger around her chin and nudging her head up, he closed the space between them. "Don't play false, Rain Dancer. You know what your rains bring."

Hisana's gaze slid to the floor, and she tightened her jaw.

"You can save a thousand with a twirl." His breath fell hot against her cheek. "Now, be a _good girl_ , and do as you're told if you want your _sister_ to see another day."

Hisana swallowed. Hard. And she squeezed her eyes shut.

"—if you want to see _any_ of your _little friends_."

* * *

Tired with muscles burning with each step, Byakuya navigated the shadows of his estate as he wound himself to his quarters. Carefully, quietly, he slipped across the threshold into a large, dark common room.

He would've made it, too, if his steward was not such a _perceptive_ soul.

"Took Lady Shihōin's call, I see," the steward greeted slyly. But, never emptyhanded, he offered Byakuya a steaming cup of tea.

Byakuya wanted to deny it, to rebuke the steward for such presumptions. But, he couldn't. He saved his acerbity for a particularly biting rendition of, "Ensure the Lady receives the oil of the rue."

The steward expertly stifled a grin, instead transforming his amusement into an obliging nod of his head. "I see," he murmured, voice indicating that someone _else_ was nearby.

Instantly, Byakuya regretted his caustic remark when his cousin's figure became all too clear through the shade of the common room.

"And, here we were planning your coupling come this autumn," Tadaomi's quiet tenor filled Byakuya's ears. A small, satisfied grin lengthened his lips. "She'll think you a callous lover if she receives oil of the rue."

Byakuya grimaced at the thought. "Perish the thought," he muttered, lowly.

Tadaomi chuckled. "Don't tell Lord Ginrei that. He's put the temple on notice."

Byakuya stared at his cousin, deadpan and unblinking.

"You think I jest?" Tadaomi feigned indignation, but his chuckles gave him away.

The steward gave Byakuya a knowing glance. "I can attest that your dear cousin does not jest."

Byakuya's expression deflated at the thought, and, unthinking, he began toward his room, fleeing the idea.

"You can't fight it, little Byakuya," Tadaomi teased him. "What are you saving yourself for?"

Byakuya disappeared behind a partition, pretending he had not heard the nonsense being spouted behind him. But, no matter how much he hated to admit it, Tadaomi had a point. What was he saving himself for?

Lekki was just as horrible as any other noble lady of good standing. None better. Many worse. But….

Byakuya quickly shed himself of his silks, reeking of the Shihōin princess.

But….

There had to be something better. Surely. Marriage, like all of the trappings of nobility, was a duty, after all. But, unlike many duties, it felt _permanent_. He had always envisioned coming home from training, from battle, from the horrors of loss and bloodshed, to someone who was worth protecting, who proved that raising his sword was for a purpose. Perhaps it was a romantic thought. Perhaps it was even childish of him to long for such a thing. But, he wanted desperately to come home to someone who inspired in him such great hopes.

Then, again, maybe a wretched life was all he had to look forward to. Like his father. Like his aunt. Like Tadaomi.

Collapsing against the cushions of his bed, Byakuya prayed that such was not the case. He prayed for someone better than Lekki. And, for a singular moment, Byakuya secretly envied Kaien and his easy love.


	7. 07 Traps & Snares

**07\. Traps & Snares**

Moon-kissed in glimmering silver, Hisana watched as her captor slumbered an arm's length away. He sat, back against the wall. His lumbering body folded over itself. His arms were thick. His hands were large. His knuckles were bruised.

Buckled at his hip was freedom, raw and captivating. She stared, hard and steadfast, at the loop. Starlight winked temptingly from the keys with each heavy exhalation the man loosened. It was excruciating. She was so close. She could almost _touch_ it, could almost _taste_ it.

Hisana had been plotting her escape ever since she saw the key loop. Indeed, she had spied the keys before she had bothered with the man. He was a brute with a hairpin temper. His blows had been harsh, dizzying. But, her resolve was stronger than the fists of scoundrels. She had survived Inuzuri with a babe. She had endured worse.

The keys, however, were a hard thing to shake. She wanted so desperately to pluck them from his hip. She could almost feel the weight of coarse iron against her palms. However, desire gave way to potent caution. If she tried and failed, she risked the lives of her comrades and sister.

Frustrated, she pushed herself against the opposite wall and let out a whimper on impact. _How foolish_! she rebuked herself.

They had sent in the largest brawler the rebels had to offer to watch over her for a _reason_. There was no chance that she could pluck the keys off him and escape. Zero percent chance of success.

Eyes rolling to the door, she shook her head. If only she were not so small. If only she were not so weak. If only….

Then, in the midst of her impromptu pity party, the door groaned back on its hinges to reveal two new faces: a slender man with a cruel twist to his lips and a woman, small and wraith-like, dripping in black silks. The woman appeared to be cradling a bundle against her chest, but the slender man eclipsed Hisana's vantage point before she could inspect her new _guests_ thoroughly.

"If it isn't the Rain Dancer," the slender man practically crowed. That insidious twist to his lips grew more malevolent with each passing second. Like a jackhammer, his gaze bore into her. It was equal parts invasive and harrowing, but Hisana had been trained in the deepest slums of Rukongai. She had long mastered the nerve to withstand slender men and wicked ways.

Unafraid to show her displeasure, Hisana turned her head to the side, away from her unwanted _guests_.

"Aw, does the Rain Dancer wish to be left alone?" Proving her initial suspicions correct, the slender man bent at the hip, took her face in his boney hand, and pried her head toward him. "Such a fiery soul," he tutted then indulged the curiosity catching his stare aflame.

Before Hisana had a chance to react, his mouth was pressed fast against hers. Locked together, she thrashed and struggled, but that only made the kiss more perilous. Teeth gnashed against teeth as he pushed closer, too close. His tongue was tough and probing, like a dentist's instrument, as it flicked into her mouth.

When he broke away from her, the coppery tin of blood filled her mouth. She swallowed the warm metallic flavor as he held her gaze. Hell if she'd break _in front of him_. He would find sport in her weakness, and, right then, Hisana desperately wanted them to see her as something as feral and deeply unobtainable.

He smiled, dark and wry, at her defiance. It was the type of smile that warned her of the troubles she would face if she did not submit. He knew defiance _well_ , and, likely, he found it delicious.

When he turned to the wraith, draped in shadow, Hisana wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Blood streaked her pale skin, made paler in the starlight, tinting it a deep shade of crimson.

Upon catching the wraith's gaze, the slender man's grin lengthened until it stretched across his face, contorting his features into a lurid rictus. "The first taste is always the sweetest," he murmured, voice low and full of some ineffable emotion, before turning to Hisana and swallowing her with his gaze.

"Let the girl alone," the wraith advised from behind the slender man.

Hisana's eyes flew to her, that strange woman. The wraith lingered on the edge of a thick shade of the room. A cape of nightfall obscured her face. All Hisana could make of the woman was her silhouette. She was thin, petite, and swaddled in glistening silk, the expensive kind.

With a step, the shadowy veil that concealed her visage lifted to reveal a young, patrician-looking female. Against her chest was a tot, and, instinctively, Hisana sprung forward. Her kinetic motion, however, was cut short by the bite of iron tightening around her legs.

"Your sister," the woman observed, turning slightly so that Hisana could get a proper look.

"Rukia!" Hisana cried, voice broken over shards of worry. Her hand shot out, muscles locking as she strained against her shackles. No matter. She was too far away.

"She's very sweet," the woman noted, impassively. "But, she is awfully frail." And, like that, the shadows began to transform. Full of kinetic motion, the shade crept toward the wraith, a swirl of smoky fingers swept around her. One thin, inky tendril of shade crept up the woman's arm and spiraled around Rukia's small hand.

It was a threat, but Rukia had fallen into the sleep of the dead and did not seem to mind.

"My shadows could tear her apart," the woman stated crisply, but her gaze remained askew, as if she could see something in the room that Hisana could not.

Every alarm went off in Hisana: A chill spider-walked down her spine; her blood began to pound in her ears, drowning out her thoughts; and her hands went cold and numb. A heady rush of adrenaline, however, made bad ideas seem noble, and Hisana struggled against her chains. "Give her to me!" The clank of chains skittering against one another filled the small room, but Hisana didn't care. All she wanted was to feel the weight of her sister safe and sound in her arms.

When her belligerence did not settle, the slender man stepped in front of the wraith and seized Hisana by the shoulder. "You'll injure yourself," his voice feigned concern, but the delight in his eyes betrayed his wicked nature. "And we couldn't have that."

Hisana spat in his face. Blood from her weeping lip spattered across his cheek, dotting his pale skin a perverse shade of red.

He turned his head, and, removing a handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dapped his face. "You are truly a hateful creature," he murmured, smile widening as he turned back to her. His eyes hardened as soon as he met her gaze. "How I love the truly hateful creatures. They take _skill_ to break, and that is such a rarity."

Before Hisana had the chance to counter, the slender man spun her around, pinning her arms down and holding her pressed against his chest. He then dipped his head down until his cheek was pressed against the side of her neck. The heat of his breath warmed her ear. "Tell me, Rain Dancer," he began, taking his time, "how many pieces will there be when you finally shatter? Will it be a thousand shards, scattering across the floor?" He then nuzzled her, like a wild cat toying with its prey, "Or will it be in two equal pieces?"

Hisana growled before lunging forward, trying her hardest to break away from him. His grasp, however, was ironclad, and all she got for her efforts was a dark chuckle. "I think you'll scatter," he whispered, breath heavy and sweet against her ear, "into a thousand little, glittering shards."

"Stop playing with her," the wraith snapped, frowning at the row. "We have terms," she reminded the slender man.

"Yes," he hissed. His voice was laced with frustration. He wanted his games, but he knew there was work to be done. "Your friends and sister will go unmolested in exchange for your services."

"How do I know that?" Hisana barked, words hot and caustic, like venom pooling against her tongue.

"You don't," the wraith chimed in, ever disinterested. "But, we have an army of peasants and disenfranchised souls that says we're no worse than those you spared from drought in Seireitei."

Hisana's eyes narrowed. "They didn't kidnap me and hold my friends and sister for ransom."

"No." The woman shrugged. "They didn't have to. All they had to do was entice you with the promise of riches. We don't have that luxury. One might think that the problem. They have so much, while the rest of us have so little." She then cocked her head to the side, and her pale blue eyes caught Hisana in a frosty stare. "But don't fool yourself, girl. Once they realize what they let slip through their fingers, they'll do whatever they can to control you. Don't think for a second their finery and beauty don't belie a cage, the bars of which may be golden and glittering, but they're still _bars_."

"So what do you say?" the slender man asked, lips brushing the shell of Hisana's ear. "Do we have your enthusiastic and willing consent?" He then forced Hisana to face the woman, to see Rukia cradled tightly against her chest.

Hisana attempted to shake the slender man's grip from her shoulders, but, once more, he subdued her with minimal effort. When she finally came to terms with the fact that there was no escaping with her sister, Hisana jerked her head to the door.

"Enthusiastic and willing," Hisana muttered under her breath.

She had no choice, after all. They'd all die if she refused. Rukia would die if she refused.

"Excellent." And, with a flick of his wrist, the slender man cut the chains from the wall, and he forced Hisana forward by the back her neck. "Let's have a little demonstration for the troops, shall we? They could use a morale boost."

* * *

"The girl."

Full stop. Heart drop. Stomach flop.

The lines in Byakuya's shoulders shifted as the silk of his robes settled across his back. His fingers, however, went stiff, at the suggestion, forgetting all his knots and ties.

Lekki's words had him transfixed at the edge of her bed. And, there he remained, suspended in a moment, unable to concentrate.

Lekki took great delight in this sudden fluster. Playfully, she nudged him with her naked foot and giggled. "Oh, little Byakuya," she cooed, knowing she had his number. "You're too easy sometimes."

He hated that. _Little Byakuya_. It resurrected a memory of another who had been so keen to call him that. She was dead now.

Byakuya threw Lekki a scathing sidelong gaze, and, like magic, his fingers moved in deft strokes as he reassembled himself. It did not take much to break the spell of anticipation in him.

Lekki's lips split into a wide, toothy grin. She was glowing with amusement as she flopped over on her side, fingers tangling in the fall of his robes.

He ripped his shoulder forward, easily brushing her grasp away.

A small, dissatisfied grunt signaled her waning amusement. "One of our spies got word of her, though," Lekki offered, hoping that it would keep him a moment longer.

Byakuya turned to her, eyes hooded, not wishing to expose himself as he once had.

Lekki continued. "One of the Second's men spoke to the guard who took first watch over her. A young male. The spy sent word that the girl had been beaten within an inch of her life and given a mantle forged of chain."

Byakuya exhaled an uneasy breath.

If true, then the Rain Dancer was not likely partial to the rebel's cause. This development made the situation only slightly easier. A reluctant healer was less effective than one who believed she was doing the Gods' work.

"The rebels found her performing with a group of entertainers. They abducted her, her little friends, and her sister."

"So, they're using her friends and kin as leverage?" The question was rhetorical. Byakuya _knew_ that was the only logical conclusion. The rebels had done their homework. They had applied pressure to all the right points to keep her from fleeing.

"According to our source."

"How many know?"

Lekki quirked a brow, "I assume he reported it to his superiors," and she gave a bored shrug. "I don't know if anyone else is asking the right questions to learn this information."

Byakuya searched Lekki and that contemptable way she looked at him. An expression of wild amusement glinted in her amber eyes. Life was a gas to her. Always had been. No matter the direness of the situation, Byakuya could always trust in her ability to find humor where there existed only horror.

"Why so serious, Byakuya?" she taunted, brows furrowed into an exaggerated version of concern. "You know all there is to know about this strange peasant woman. It is very _unlike_ you to worry about such things."

Byakuya's eyes narrowed at her observation. She knew nothing of what he was _like_. It had been _years_ since they had a proper conversation. And, even then, their conversations were thin and superficial.

He didn't even know why he bothered, and, then, the bladed sensation of shame cut him.

"Escaping so soon, Byakuya?" her voice trilled in his ears. "You haven't even heard the best part."

In a fluid motion, he stood, facing the door. Back to her. But, before he could take another step, he waited. Part of him knew where she was heading. Part of him wanted to know just how she was going to deliver the news. Part of him even wanted to know how it would _feel_ hearing it.

"Your aunt has been a very busy lady—"

His eyes slipped shut, and he braced himself.

"—she has offered to be the go-between. For _us_."

Byakuya felt a bolt of electricity lick down his spine at the thought. The betrayal would have cut deeper had he not been prepared. Had his manservant not confirmed his errant suspicions, he would have railed. He would have furied. He would have proven himself to be the same child they had sent away all those years ago. But, he wasn't that boy anymore. And, he would master the game that his elders knew so well.

"You don't seem surprised, little Byakuya."

He could almost _hear_ the grin in her voice. Was this what she had wanted? Had Lekki known that her temptations would land her in his marriage bed? Likely not. She was keen and calculating, but her aim was always too low, always too short.

She was a poor substitute for her predecessor.

Byakuya let himself out without a word.

The night was dark and still as he traced the winding trails through the Shihōin garden. Nothing could pierce his mental fog, not the groaning frogs, not the chirping crickets, not even the silvery moon hanging full-faced overhead.

Nothing could break his internal horror. He was _convinced_. Then, unexpectedly, he stumbled across Tadaomi pressing a servant against a hedge under the heavy cover of night. Byakuya wasn't even sure he had seen when he quickly excused his intrusion and spun around on his heel.

Even a few long strides later, the unmistakable sting of embarrassment still clung to his cheeks. There was nothing to cure what he had seen, to erase the image of Tadaomi having his way with a Shihōin servant.

Byakuya did not even know where to begin with his censure, which crashed over him with the impact of a wave beating the shore. It was cold, it was painful, and it took his breath away.

As he was prone to doing when feeling overwhelmed, Byakuya shoved it down. Buried it deep inside. He never went so far as to lie to himself, but he did reach for a dark sort of numbness in the wake of strong feelings.

And, just when Byakuya thought composure was within his grasp, Tadaomi's cool tenor broke over him, "They always said the Kuchiki preferred commoners."

Byakuya could not stand to look at his cousin right then. The horror. The shame. The censure. The dead of night could not hide his emotions, and he was convinced that Tadaomi could offer no explanation that would exonerate his behavior.

"My mother and her terrible first marriage. Your father and his sordid ordeal with the Academy's kido mistress. Now me," Tadaomi continued, either oblivious to Byakuya's mortification or powering through it.

Byakuya gave Tadaomi a furtive glance, and his features hardened at the mention of his father. Suddenly, Byakuya's shame washed away, carried out on a fresh tide of hatred, cruel and harsh. Yet, even though he wanted to chastise Tadaomi for speaking out of turn, he could not. The truth simply prevented him.

"Don't despair, Byakuya," Tadaomi teased lightly. "Our parents had their diversions. So shall we."

"I would prefer not to linger on our parents' poor examples."

Tadaomi chuckled at this. "What do you expect when your marriage is arranged by a committee, whose biggest concern is whether or not the optics are right?"

"Grandfather," Byakuya began, but Tadaomi was a mile ahead of him.

"Ginrei?" Tadaomi practically exclaimed, "Ginrei did his _duty_. He was blessed with a submissive wife and a short marriage."

Byakuya turned his gaze skyward for fear of lashing out at Tadaomi, who spoke so steadily about subjects he knew so little about. Like Grandfather.

Byakuya had seen the shrine his grandfather had erected to his grandmother in the deepest corner of his grandfather's room. Byakuya remembered seeing grandfather standing before it, an earnest look of torment marring his features. No one ever spoke of his grandmother. The servants were forbidden to speak her name, and both his aunt and father were too young to remember her in life or in passing.

Yet, despite this, her presence was felt. Grandfather had never remarried, and, unlike his issue, he was never implicated with another, which, given the state of the shrine in his room, Byakuya never questioned, keenly aware, even as a boy, that no man built a private shrine to a woman that he wished dead. No man lingered outside a woman's shrine with whispered words falling from his lips like cherry blossoms scattering on the wind unless that woman meant the world to him.

And, even though the connection between his grandfather and grandmother was never explained to him, he knew it stretched long and strong, and that was what Byakuya had always wanted. He wanted to know what it felt like to cherish someone's counsel so greatly that he would seek their guidance even after death. He wanted to know what a love perfected felt like.

He wanted to know that whispered words and longing stares did not have to stop at death.

Byakuya, however, would have never held his parents out to be exemplars of a perfect love. Not in the slightest. They were content, gentle souls. But, there was a distance between them that could never be bridged. Strangers in marriage, and strangers in death.

Tadaomi's mother had suffered a cruel loss when her first husband brought in the rains of censure upon the family before leaving her jilted and bitter. She had settled into a more traditional second marriage, but the wildness that marked her youth could not be domesticated despite her greatest efforts.

Perhaps that was the burden of the Kuchiki. Protocol and etiquette proved heavy and unfulfilling. Pointless, even. But, they did not make the law. It was only their lot to uphold it.

"C'mon, now," Tadaomi chided him, jabbing his elbow into Byakuya's arm, "don't look so sullen. Marriage is a duty. Love isn't. Your father knew that."

Byakuya shot Tadaomi a stern glare. He was in no mood for trifling observations. Nor was he in a mood to confront the expectation that had suddenly blossomed. "Perhaps I will not marry."

"HA!" Tadaomi laughed so hard he nearly sputtered. "I don't think you get much of a say in the matter. I'm pretty sure they'll send armed guards if necessary to make sure the event takes place. And, the Shihōin have the stealth force under their command. They'd smoke you out within a day." Likely realizing that he had face-planted onto the tripwire of Byakuya's malcontent, Tadaomi quickly changed course, "On the bright side, you'll have strong children."

"Enough," Byakuya muttered under his breath.

There was always the civil insurrection. He was certain that no marriage vows would be exchanged at sword-point while civil war loomed.

Never before and never since, did Byakuya welcome the thought of war.

* * *

The slender man's grip was bruising as he yanked Hisana into a bright room full of buttery yellow light. Unable to adjust to the sudden radiance, Hisana jerked away from the burn of light, closing her eyes.

"Bring her closer," a voice, strong and commanding, directed.

With a half-hearted grunt, the slender man jerked her forward with such force, Hisana landed skittering across the floor on her knees.

"I told you not to touch her face!" the voice roared.

When Hisana opened her eyes again, the brightness of the room nearly blinded her. The whole world looked bleached white until the contours of the room faded into nothing. But she knew that wasn't true. She knew there were lions in that room. She could feel them. A group of them, forming a tight circle around her. The slender man was on her left. The wraith was on her right. A faceless man loomed in front of her. But, there was another. A fourth.

"How will we engender loyalty in our men if they think us capable of torturing a healer?" The voice rose and bounced off the walls of the room.

Hisana was fully disoriented, now. She could barely locate her own body parts in the din of echoes and that terrible whiteness that stripped her of her vision. She felt like she was being torn apart as her psyche began to slowly fragment under the sensory deprivation.

A touch, however, quickly oriented her to her face. It was feather-light, tracing the wound on her lip.

"Nine couldn't help himself. He said he needed a taste," the wraith growled from Hisana's right.

"I took a taste. I didn't crack my knuckles against her cheek, and I didn't blacken her eye."

"Send for the inn keeper's daughter. Ask her to help prepare _this_."

Then, the sound cut out, and all Hisana could hear was the thrumming of her blood in her ears. This lasted a few seconds before her body could not take the sudden pressure that hammered her. She felt her knees slap against the floor. Her hands pressed into the clay. And, finally, she collapsed into a silky blackness.

When Hisana awoke, it was in the midst of fresh panic.

Instinctively, she sprang forward on the bed. Her breath escaped in gasps, and her eyes, wide and full of terror, took in the contents of the room in a single sweep. A bed. A mirror. A girl in the corner. A rug. Dirt floors. A rickety door. A lantern casting dim umber shades of light against the walls.

Hisana's focus narrowed on the girl. She looked harmless. Young. Small. Scared.

"Are you feeling well?" the girl's pitch went high, and Hisana swore she could detect a tremble.

"How do I get out of here?" The words all came rushing out of her mouth so quickly that Hisana barely realized she was saying them at all.

The girl stared at her, slack-jawed and nonplussed. "You're supposed to save us."

Hisana blinked. "I am?" She could barely save herself. Why did they think her capable of saving anyone else?

"From the Shinigami."

Hisana's eyes flew to the door, where they lingered. "You're going to need more than me." It was the truth, but the flinch her reply elicited from the girl still drew Hisana's pity.

"But, there are so many men, and the Four are so strong," the girl protested, but her protesting sounded an awful lot like rationalizing.

Hisana blinked as the girl fought with herself. Fear was a horrible thing. It made the weak clingy. Any little ray of hope would do, no matter the likelihood of failure.

Hisana knew a lot about fear, weakness, and the desperate need to cling to hope above all else. But, she had lived long enough to know that motivations born in fear always led to actions that ended in tears. So, right then, as a deluge of thoughts hounded her, Hisana wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to push away the plans, schemes, plots, and half-backed machinations that begged for her consideration. Right then, she was too scared for her sister's and friends' safety to make a prudent decision.

"What are the plans?" Hisana quizzed, deciding on taking a different, _gentler_ , tact with the girl. "Do you know?" She did an admirable job at smoothing the edge from her voice.

The girl's eyes softened. "I don't know. I think they are waiting."

"Waiting?"

The girl nodded. "Yes. They are getting provisions, but they want to wait until the last moment possible to meet the Shinigami at the watchtower."

Hisana's brows pulled together. "Shinigami at the watchtower?" Where _was_ she?

The girl stared at Hisana flabbergasted that she would ask such an ignorant question. "The watchtower in the Western Waste."

"The Fiftieth District?" Hisana _was_ dumbfounded. How long had she been knocked out to have been dragged so far against her will?

The girl gave her a skeptical look. "Yes. Do you not know where you are?"

Hisana shook her head. "I was taken by the rebels."

"You mean you joined the rebels?" The girl, apparently, was not quite ready to believe that her _de facto_ saviors were no better than the guys that represented the _status quo_.

Hisana forced a small, thin smile. "I'm sorry. I suffered some head trauma recently." It was true. Sort of. She suffered a concession at the very least.

"Yes! The men said that the Shinigami had abducted you and forced you to dance for them. How horrible and violating that must have been for you!"

Hisana's brows shot up at this jarring revision to the _facts_. "Oh, yeah?" her voice bordered dangerously close to sarcasm, but the girl was either too brain-washed or brain-damaged to notice.

"You must not remember, but that's what they said happened. The Shinigami injured you pretty badly."

Hisana smiled at this. It was so poetic and so tragic that she couldn't help but find some modicum of amusement in the situation.

"Your lip!" the girl squeaked before scurrying over and applying some salve to Hisana's bottom lip. "It's bleeding."

Hisana nodded, having felt it split when she smiled. Then, suddenly, she felt every ache and pain that must have been waiting for the potent mixture of endorphins and adrenaline to subside before ravaging her. Her head throbbed. Her eye felt swollen and tender. Her arms felt as if they had been yanked out of their sockets repeatedly before being popped back in.

Even her hair hurt.

"I hope you can still remember the steps to your dance!" the girl teased gently as she dabbed a wet cloth to Hisana's black eye.

"Oh yeah?"

The girl smiled. "You're supposed to perform tonight. Everyone is looking forward to seeing your dance."

Hisana's lips thinned into a wry smile. "Is that so?"

"Yep. We're so happy that you're here to help the soldiers. We really need someone to aid our men."

Hisana's brows lowered as she fought back the urge to slip into downcast thoughts. "Have you seen anyone else new?"

"Yeah! There were a few people who joined when you go here. But, I haven't seen them since you first arrived."

Hisana pursed her lips. "I see."


End file.
